The Martingale
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Sometimes the end justifies the means.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no profit from them. This is a work of fiction, as are all of the characters within.

Rated: PG-13

**Author's Note**: This is a sequel to _The Fix_ and takes place five years after that story. In the original tale, Mark goes to the island of San Roque to do a bit of routine legal paperwork for a friend of a friend of Hardcastle's. He winds up in a San Roque prison. Hardcastle springs him using a bit of subterfuge that almost winds up costing McCormick more prison time back home.

Arthur Farnell is the charming international thief who was run to ground in the episode 'School for Scandal', but who escaped punishment in Owlcroft's _Scam I Am_, and is residing in San Rio in her story _Sundazzle_. Thanks for the loan of the back-story, Owl.

Aggie Wainwright is the aviatrix from San Rio who assisted the guys in the episode 'Flying down to Rio'.

Oh, and Kathy is 'One of the Girls from Accounting'.

Paul is mine, from _Road Trip _and _The End of Civilization as We Know It. _Westerfield is the property of the Gulls Way Collective, on long term loan to me.

Okay, got all that? ;-)

And many thanks to Cheri and Owl for beta-ing.

**The Martingale**

By L. M. Lewis

**Prologue—Christmas, 1990**

Left-over turkey sandwiches, and Mark cross-legged on the floor, fussing with the CD player that had been his and Kathy's gift to him that morning. He got the Tony Bennett album going ("It's a _disc_, Judge, not an album."), and then scooted back, till he was leaning against the sofa where she was curled up.

Eggnog all around. No reason not to, Mark and Kath were staying in the gatehouse tonight and leaving for the airport by cab first thing in the morning. For the umpteenth time since he'd made the suggestion, Hardcastle was glad that he and Mark had decided to shut up the shop between the holidays. He hadn't been able to pry the kid loose from the law clinic for more than a long weekend, for over a year now.

Of course he'd had to promise to stay out of there, too ("And you will absolutely _not_ serve any subpoenas yourself. That's what process servers are _for_. They'll starve if you do all their work for them.") So the offer from Pasquel Narbona, newly-elected President of San Roque, had been timely as hell.

"He's gonna go write a constitution for them," Mark had informed Kathy, with what seemed to be an element of personal pride, earlier that afternoon over turkey and cranberries. "And this time it won't be one of those slapdash jobs that needs a lot of amendments even before the ink is dry."

"I'm just a consultant—English common law and fundamental rights—"

"'You have the right to remain silent—'" Mark had intoned solemnly, barely avoiding a kick under the table from his more considerate wife.

"Yeah," the judge had admitted grudgingly, "that one, too. They're all important. Even the new-fangled stuff."

"'New-fangled' being anything after 1781." Mark had been grinning outright by that point. "San Roque is in for a shock."

"Well, you can bet San Roque in December will be a heck of a lot nicer than Philadelphia was that summer."

And if there'd been a shadow of doubtful recollection on McCormick's face, it had passed quickly. New régime, and Hardcastle an honored guest of _el Presidente_ Narbona, nothing at all like Mark's first visit there nearly five years earlier.

But they'd said nothing more about that, and now, hours later, they were all comfortably ensconced in the den. Hardcastle had lost track of the conversation for a moment, and snapped his eyes up from the gently crackling fire in the seldom-used hearth.

"—and we'll be back the same day you are, if we don't get snowed in," Mark smiled as he considered the possibility. "But it'll be okay, even if we do; we don't have anything on the board for that first week in January yet."

"I thought we weren't gonna talk shop. Next thing you'll have Kathy taking out our tax files and starting the prep. Drink your eggnog."

Mark ducked his chin and took an obedient swig. "Good stuff."

"Ought to be," Hardcastle nodded. "The rum came with the invitation from Narbona. San Roque's finest."

"And here I thought their only industry was casinos."

"Yeah, well, rum is kind of a _cottage_ industry for them. Casinos are where the real money is at, nowadays. Most of their tax base comes from them and the tourism they bring in. And that's where the main opposition to the new constitution is going to come from; money can buy votes."

"I think you're talking shop again," Kathy interjected. "You want me to just go ahead and get out the tax forms?"

The '_No_' came in unison from both men. Then there was a moment of group eggnog contemplation.

"It was a very nice Christmas," Mark said quietly.

"One of the nicest," Hardcastle added.

"Not that we haven't had a few more _interesting_—"

"Yeah, well, you know what they say about interesting times."

Mark nodded. "And a few of them were flat-out awful."

"Aw, come on—not _that _bad."

"The one you spent in jail," Mark said pointedly. Kathy uncurled a little, looking interested.

"_You_ were in prison, Judge?"

"_Jail_," Hardcastle harrumphed. "There's a difference."

"On _Christmas_? What in heaven's name for?"

"Murder," Mark said flatly. "We found the body, um." He was pointing with the glass in his hand, wavering a little uncertainly. "'Bout there, was it?"

Hardcastle nodded.

There was a slight but visible shiver from Kathy.

"It was a frame," Mark added, hopefully unnecessarily. "But it was a pretty good one."

"They wouldn't set bail?" Kathy asked, having spent enough time at the dinner table with the other two to know the right questions to ask.

"Well, yeah, they had," Mark answered first, "but it was the holiday, see, and his accountant—hell, _everybody_—was out of town. And I couldn't get a bail bondsman to touch it with a ten-foot pole."

"But he did spring me," Hardcastle added with a slight smile.

"How?"

"He hocked the Coyote, came and got me out on Christmas afternoon." The judge's smile faded into an unasked question.

"Yeah," Mark slipped back into the conversation from somewhere a little further off, "and there he was playing King Rat the whole time." He smiled up over his shoulder at Kathy. "I found him running a law clinic on the inside." Then he cast a quick glance at the judge. "I'm surprised you could tear yourself away from your new practice long enough to get out and solve your own case."

Hardcastle frowned slightly. "Well, it wasn't all that peachy-keen. A guy tried to shove a knife in me the first afternoon I was there."

Mark's face sobered considerably. "You never told me that."

The judge shrugged. "Must've been somebody Martin Cherney hired. Didn't want to worry you."

"See," McCormick shook his head in disbelief, "that's the problem. I can't trust that you aren't not trying to worry me, so I gotta just do the basic low-grade worrying thing all the time."

He paused for a moment, as if to check to see if maybe he hadn't slipped one too many negatives into that statement. Then he shook his head again and took another swig of eggnog. "Anyway, what makes you think it had to be the guy who framed you? It's not like there weren't plenty of other guys in there who hated you on general principle."

Hardcastle gave this a puzzled look and took a sip of his own drink. He didn't have a plane to catch until the next afternoon He finally got back round to the question he had come up with a few moments earlier.

"So that's why you were in such a hurry to get me out? Hocking the Coyote and all? Was it 'cause you thought there'd be guys lining up in there to have a whack at me?"

Mark blinked once, as though he was surprised by the question.

"You were in _jail_ . . . It was _Christmas_."

"Yeah, well . . ."

"I've been in jail on Christmas . . ." Mark frowned down into his eggnog, higher math skills having abandoned him. He finally looked up again and said, "five times. Well, once was jail, three times prison."

Kathy leaned forward a little and caught his eye. "That's four."

"Oh, the other was juvie. I think that was maybe the worst."

Kathy made a small 'oh'.

"Well, you know, Christmas is when you ought to be able to let your guard down, 'good will to all', that kind of thing, and in juvie, hah, the kids all try to out-tough each other. Too cool to be scared. But they're all about one inch from snapping, and Christmas, well, that's kinda hard on some of them, if they had anything before they went in."

There was something in the way he'd said that last bit that made Hardcastle think Mark might have considered himself one of the lucky ones who wasn't used to anything better. He kept this idea to himself.

"And that year the place I was at—it was kind of a cross between a barracks and a dormitory—it had one bathroom, down the hall, and this kid had gone in there, cut his wrist with a piece of metal stripping that he'd found and sharpened up. Blood all over the place." Mark made a face. "But not enough. So he was holding his wrist under water, in the sink, to try and make it bleed more. Maybe the water was too cold. I dunno. Everyone else must've known something was up; they stayed out of there. But I go wandering in, and he's cussing a blue streak at me, says I'd better keep my mouth shut or else . . ."

"What did you do?" Kathy asked quietly.

"I kept my mouth shut." Mark was staring at the fire. He shrugged once. "We both knew he'd screwed it up. He sat down on the floor. He cussed till he cried, and then some staff came and took him away. Dunno where he wound up."

Kathy said nothing. Not 'God, that's awful,' not 'I feel so sorry for you.' Hardcastle was impressed with how well she seemed to know the guy who was sitting on the floor in front of her, and that he was willing to open up a door to one of the dark places, fairly certain that none of it would scare her off.

"This eggnog," Mark said slowly, after a brief silence, "is sneaky stuff."

"It is," Hardcastle agreed. "Very sneaky."

A bit of awkward silence passed. "But Clarkville wasn't so bad," Mark said, as if to make up for what he'd already said.

Hardcastle suspected he was putting on the rose-colored glasses for this bit—he knew Mark had seen at least one suicide at Clarkville, and the fourteen months he'd spent there had been no picnic.

"I think the second worst one was in the L.A. County jail," Mark added, after a moment's thought. "Yeah, it was, 'cause I'd just gotten busted for the Porsche. That was right before Christmas, 1980."

"December nineteenth," Hardcastle said quietly.

Mark looked up at him suddenly. "Yeah," he said, almost smiling, as though he was surprised he'd known.

"You told me once."

"Yeah." It was a smile now. "You remembered."

Hardcastle shrugged.

"Well, nobody was trying to kill me, but I was plenty angry. Being angry in the lock-up is kind of like a force field. You start hearing this sort of buzzing noise, maybe that's all you hear—all that anger sparking up against other people's. At first I was just angry because there'd been this big mistake, and I couldn't figure why the hell it was taking so long to straighten out. I thought maybe because it was because of the holiday, and everyone was just too busy to look into it. Wasn't until about, oh, the twenty-sixth, that I realized it wasn't a mistake—at least nobody else thought it was."

"That's what you meant?" Hardcastle asked, "I mean, about being in jail, and it was Christmas."

"Maybe," Mark conceded. "Maybe I just didn't want you to think I wasn't trying, that you'd just been left there and nobody gave a damn."

"I knew it wasn't like that," Hardcastle smiled reassuringly.

"Good," Mark said, with a sharp nod of his chin.

The conversation shifted again, to lighter things—Mark swearing solemnly that he would stick to the bunny slopes until he had a basic grasp of the concepts, Hardcastle accepting admonishments that, even if he were to trip over a major criminal endeavor while in San Roque, he would leave law enforcement in the hands of the local authorities.

Eventually the eggnog caught up to them all. Tony Bennett was on his second round of 'Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas' and the last remaining log had burned down to embers.

A set of goodnights at the door—no need to get up in the morning to see them off, _really_—a veiled request for no sunrise hits against the backboard. The cab would be there early enough.

"See you next year." They smiled and laughed and Hardcastle got a hug from Kathy and then they were off, the two of them heading up the drive, leaning gently into each other.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter One—January 2nd, 1991**

Mark caught a glimpse of him in the waiting area, almost as soon as they'd gotten off the plane, while they were still trying to get their bearings. He had that momentary disconnect, seeing someone unexpectedly and out-of-context.

_What's Frank doing at LAX?_

He supposed Harper might be anywhere. But, being a cop, it was usually because something bad had happened. And a split-second after he'd seen him, Mark knew in the pit of his stomach that whatever it was, it involved Hardcastle.

Frank had caught sight of him, too, and was moving against the tide to close the space between them.

"I tried to reach you; you'd already left the hotel—"

"What happened?" Mark interrupted, Kathy leaning in anxiously at his elbow, the three of them now in a half-circle near the side, with the flow of traffic jostling past them.

**"**You didn't hear—?"

"_Frank_—" McCormick interrupted again; he was in no mood for gentle, procrastinating words, and, more worrisome, they weren't Frank's usual style.

"San Roque," the lieutenant frowned. "A bloodless coup."

Mark stood there, frozen. He'd heard Kathy take in a sharply-drawn breath. He finally found his own voice. "When?"

"Yesterday, overnight really. There wasn't a lot on the news, but I contacted some people—"

"How 'bloodless'? Where the hell is Hardcastle? You heard from him yet?"

"Listen," Frank put out one hand, as if to still the flood of questions, "the State Department's not saying much, but the word is that the tourists are barely noticing. A few extra police in the street; it's otherwise business as usual. The last thing they want is to make people nervous."

"No word from the judge? He was supposed to be on a plane home this morning. You tried to call him?"

"Left a message at the hotel this morning." Frank checked his watch. "Five hours now. I talked to the guy at the American consulate there, too. He's saying, far as anyone knows, Narbona and his chief people were arrested at a dinner at the President's home last night, by that guy, Ruiz, on the authority of some group that's calling itself 'The Committee for Freedom'."

"Damn," Mark put one hand to his forehead. "Last night? Chances are Hardcastle was there. Might have even been a farewell dinner. They were hammering out some details on a new constitution Narbona was gonna propose. I talked to him two days ago. Everything was going fine."

"Yeah, well, the guy at the consulate said since Milt wasn't there in an official capacity, all he could do was lodge a protest, and today things were kinda up for grabs, might take him a while to find someone to protest to. All he could tell me for sure was that the casinos were still open and the hotel-occupancies were only down the usual post-holiday amount."

"So no one even knows where Narbona is?They didn't maybe shove 'em all on a plane to San Rio or something?" McCormick asked grimly, with what was clearly fading hope.

Frank shook his head.

"'Bloodless'," Mark said bitterly. "There's so many ways to do it without leaving any blood."

He looked around at the anonymous swirl of the airport. Then he frowned a quick, worried glance at Kathy before addressing Frank again, "I gotta make some phone calls, some arrangements. Maybe we should go back to the estate."

He hesitated, thinking he might have to justify that a bit more, but then brushed it aside and went on. If they thought that he was seeking the comfort of the familiar they would be more than half-right anyway.

"Maybe he'll get in touch with us. Maybe they'll let him go once the dust settles."

The other two looked like they were trying for expressions of hopeful encouragement.

"But if he doesn't, if they _don't_—I want to be ready to move on this." He pinched the bridge of his nose, then shot Kathy another quick look. "We'll need cash."

She waved this away as a non-concern. "I'll take care of that."

He nodded once, sharply at her, then looked at Frank again. "And we'll need help."

Frank nodded, as though that part was understood.

Mark ran his fingers through his hair and then looked down at his watch. "Okay, let's go to it. I've got a lot of calls to make."

00000

Frank had gone back and forth between the gatehouse and the main house a few times. He was using the second line there to get updates from a guy he knew over at the wire service, not that there was much news to get. Everything was coming from the local newspaper office in San Roque, and they were apparently not feeling very comfortable with full disclosure.

On his second trip into the den, he caught the tail end of a telephone conversation between Mark and an unnamed party. It might have been a bad connection, maybe long-distance, probably overseas. A certain amount of coercion seemed to be involved on Mark's part. Aggie Wainwright's name was invoked.

Frank frowned and took a seat. He suspected he knew whose arm was being twisted, and if his services were on the list of requirements, the whole plan might be taking a turn for the shady.

"Arthur Farnell?" he asked, as Mark finally hung up.

McCormick looked anxiously satisfied. He smiled, though it was a little flat. "Sure you don't want to be able to say later on that you didn't know what I was up to?"

Frank grimaced. "He'll never believe me. Might as well be hung for a sheep."

"Well," Mark exhaled, "I'm not really sure what I'm doing yet either."

"That wasn't exactly the reassurance I was looking for."

"Oh," Mark frowned, "I've got an _idea_." He glanced up sharply. "I need someone on the ground right away. Farnell's practically next door. He's even been to San Roque before—knows his way around."

"And he was willing to help?"

"Yeah, well, Hardcastle did do him sort of a favor way back when he was starting out."

"So I heard," Harper said dryly. "Don't know what Milt's gonna say about it—Farnell might think this makes them more than even."

Mark shrugged. "As long as it works, he can yell all he wants afterwards about how bad the plan was. That'll just be incidental." The younger man's expression went suddenly more sober, as though the alternative did not bear looking at. "We need every edge we can get. I'll deal with the devil if I have to."

Frank sat back in his chair, considering this, as Mark looked down at his list and started dialing again. McCormick looked entirely at home behind Milt's desk—worried, yes, but very focused, not nervous, and wholly in charge. Harper supposed the transformation had been gradual, and not nearly so noticeable when the younger man was in Hardcastle's shadow.

_Which is still someplace he doesn't mind being._

Frank heard the front door open. Kathy had taken off in her car a while ago, without much discussion. Now she slipped back into the room, opened a manila folder on the desk, and waited patiently until Mark was done talking to his latest recruit.

"Sign." She handed him a pen. "It's in both our names," she offered in cryptic explanation.

He signed, without giving it much more than a glance. He smiled up at her, though, and said, "Thanks."

Then she was leaving again. "Might take me a couple of days," she tossed lightly over her shoulder. "You'll probably have to go ahead without me."

"Two days," Mark said with firm hope.

Kathy half-turned back. "We won't get a very good rate."

"Some now is better than more later. Two days."

"Well," she said with a frown that was apparently accompanied by quick mental calculation, "I can get you some basic working funds by this evening. The rest—"

"Two days," Mark prodded.

His confidence in her was apparently irresistible. Whatever doubt had been on her face faded under the onslaught. "Two days," she finally said, with a sharp nod. Then she turned and slipped out.

Mark went back to his list and his phone. Frank got to his feet, slowly, and said. "I'll try the consulate again."

This got him a nod from the younger man and a wave as Frank stepped out, too.

00000

He'd had the first glimmerings of a plan even while he'd been standing with Frank and Kathy in the airport terminal. From there it had taken on shape and structure, and now the stepwise means to the end were suggesting themselves in rapid succession. Farnell was really step three. He was dialing step one next.

The voice at the other end was the one he'd been hoping to speak to directly.

"Hi, Paul," he said casually. They didn't talk all that often, but somehow he knew the kid would recognize his voice.

"Hey, Mark." Paul Hanley didn't seem surprised to hear him out of the unexpected blue; his tone was slightly alert, though. "What's up?"

McCormick frowned. No simple answer to that, and what he did know could wait to be told. There was only one question that was really important. He asked it, straight out.

"You free for a couple of days?"

00000

Frank didn't make it back to the gatehouse. He knew there wasn't much point to calling the consulate again so soon. He stood there on the front porch, taking deep breaths of the cool, late afternoon air. He rocked back on his heels.

He was not an odds-maker; that was more Mark's line-of-trade, but he was aware that there wasn't much security in being the innocent bystander to a palace coup. Besides, Ruiz had to know by now that it was Hardcastle who had snookered him five years earlier, extraditing Mark right out of the darkest—well, the _only_—prison on San Roque.

But did Ruiz also know that it was McCormick who had taken the photos of his meeting with some local crime bosses? And how much trouble had those photographs casued the police chief, once Hardcastle had placed them in Nabona's hands?

How Ruiz had survived that setback—and what support he now had from organized crime on the island, Frank could only speculate. But even with three years gone past, the ex-police chief had to have some personal animosity toward his old nemesis—and chances were he wouldn't feel too kindly disposed toward Mark, either.

Harper heard a noise behind him and half-turned. Mark was easing through the front door.

"Got some errands to run," he said vaguely.

"I'll go with," Frank offered.

A quick shake and a 'no'.

"Visiting some people who don't want the police to know where they live?"

"Might be," Mark said, looking upward and maintaining a look of innocence that only lasted for a moment. Then he dropped his eyes and his pitch and gazed at Frank very intently. "Look, I can't be me. For all I know I'm still on some list somewhere there as a wanted felon in San Roque. I don't even know what the hell I was arrested for the last time. And Paul Hanley needs to be twenty-one. So we both need papers. Just us."

"I thought I was going, too."

"Yeah, but your name won't be a problem. I least I don't think so." He frowned. "But I can get you a set if you want," he added hastily.

"No," Frank replied quickly and firmly. "I'm not very good at this criminal behavior thing. Goes against the grain. I'd probably get sweaty and nervous and give it all up as soon as I had to flash them at somebody."

Mark smiled as though he doubted it very much. Then he said, "Okay. You'll be you."

"And who's that Hanley kid going to be?" Frank asked dubiously.

"Oh," Mark's smile went vulpine, "he's the foot in the door."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 2—January 3rd **

McCormick was on the first flight out to Miami the next morning, sitting alongside Paul. They would split up on the second leg, and land in San Roque as perfect strangers.

"You can do it?" Mark asked. "You're clear on the concept?"

"Blackjack in general, or card counting?" Paul replied acerbically.

"Okay, yeah," McCormick looked a little abashed, "I know it's not rocket science, but doing it in _practice_, I mean, in a noisy casino with all the distractions—"

"I don't distract," Paul said with a perfect assurance.

To all appearances, the kid was a gangly nineteen-year-old, nothing auspicious about him. Mark hoped the fake I.D. that said he was twenty-one, wasn't going to be too much of a stretch. But that was part of his advantage as a wedge. If you'd presented the kid with the problem of how to beat the odds at a blackjack table, Paul Hanley probably would have come up with the whole system of card counting himself, in under five minutes.

Indeed, after McCormick had described the basic method to him, he'd frowned at it for all of sixty seconds, then told him it would work better if he just kept track of each card itself.

"It's not just one deck, Paul. There's a bunch of them. It's called a shoe." Mark was pretty sure all of the kid's knowledge of the game was theoretical.

Paul looked at him blankly, most likely because the idea of keeping track of 520 cards seemed no more difficult to him than merely memorizing fifty-two as they were played out.

"Anyway," Mark sighed after a moment, "you'll be the spotter. I don't care what system you use, hi-lo, or memorizing the whole deck. Your job is to figure the odds, that's all. No fancy betting. You stay the course, stick to the minimums, and play nice, sensible blackjack. For God's sake, make a mistake once in a while. Then, when it moves to the player's advantage, you'll signal me. I'll step in and place the big bets. That way there's no pattern for the dealer to notice."

"But it's not illegal." Paul frowned. "I mean, it shouldn't be. It's just a statistical advantage."

"It may not be cheating, but it'll get you barred from a casino in Las Vegas. I don't know what the policy is in San Roque, and I sure as hell don't want to find out. So we _don't_ want them to figure out what you're doing, okay?"

"I got it; I _get_ it." Paul replied, sounding mildly cranky. "Though I'm not sure exactly what the point is. It's one table at one casino. How much damage can you do?"

"One table at one casino," Mark smiled a little grimly, "is step one."

00000

He watched Paul make his way through customs with no difficulty. He hadn't expected any. Money in a wallet was the best passport in San Roque. He followed along a short while later, trusting that his papers, obtained from the same source, would be equally unremarkable.

"Mark Johnson?" the customs agent looked down at the photograph and up at the face.

He nodded; he answered the routine questions in a bored, routine way. He was processed through. He got to the front doors of the terminal just in time to see Paul entering a taxi. He looked around for his own ride, pre-arranged.

Henrico Olivares nodded to him from a short way down the curb. His face was mostly bland. There was only a shade of mostly-concealed worry. Mark strode toward him, letting him take the bag from him as he approached, everything to look as ordinary as possible. Henrico was just another driver for hire, and he a passenger.

Olivares gestured him into the back seat of the Buick Riv, stowed the suitcase in the trunk, and climbed into the driver's seat, all without a word.

"No news," he finally said, after he'd started the engine and pulled into traffic. He didn't turn around, only giving McCormick a grim expression by way of the rear-view mirror. "No one is saying anything for certain about Narbona . . . or any of the men who were with him. There are rumors, though . . ."

Mark's own face was set. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear the rumors, but he knew he needed to. He nodded once.

"They say," Olivares cocked his head thoughtfully, "that Alvarez, he is Narbona's right hand man and el Procurador—"

"I met him once."

"They say he wasn't at the dinner. Had the flu perhaps, something indisposed."

"He's still on the loose?" Mark said hopefully.

"Yes, they say. But Ruiz will be hunting him. He is a loose end. Still, there are a lot of hills up there." Olivares gestured landward with his chin. "Meanwhile, as long as he is out, it all balances on the tip of a knife. If Ruiz can tighten his grip, make promises to the casino owners and keep them, then Narbona and the rest are lost."

Mark gave that a bitter shake of his head. "It's been two days. What makes you think Ruiz hasn't killed them all already?"

"Pawns," Henrico said. "They are pawns to keep Alvarez from mustering resistance. I think Ruiz will not sacrifice them until he is in complete control."

"And the casino owners?"

"One has outright supported Ruiz in his attempt. That's a place called L'Azure. The rest are waiting and seeing. No one wants to commit until the outcome is more clear." Olivares frowned into the mirror again. "And what will you do? They say Roca Triste is under Ruiz's control. That is where they probably are."

Mark's felt his expression hardening. No one had to tell him what that place was like, though oddly, his impressions were not visual—he'd been brought into it at night, and left it, almost blind, after a week in a black hole that they'd called a cell. He pushed all the worry to one side, swept it into a cell of its own, and focused on the problem at hand. He had a plan.

"We," he said grimly, "are going to try and make a few people see the light."

00000

Henrico dropped him at the hotel, and left with his own assignment. Mark checked in, quickly stowed his things, and made his way down to the hotel bar with one eye on his watch and ten minutes to spare.

He took a seat, ordered a beer, and blended into the anonymity of the dimly lit room. The man sitting next to him had a scotch on the rocks and a look of bored amusement. His hair was shot silver at the temples, and his suit was a tropical weight, perfectly tailored.

"Just arrived?" The older gentleman said in a tone of casual friendliness.

Mark nodded, equally casual. "This afternoon."

"Where from?"

"California. The name's Johnson, Mark."

"What a coincidence. I used to hail from there myself. Farnell, Arthur."

"Here on business?"

"No, pleasure . . . always pleasure." Farnell smiled. "Are you a wagering man, Mr. Johnson?"

"Sometimes, blackjack is what I prefer to play."

"The Azure," he drawled. "That's a place you'll want to try. Very nice establishment. 3:2 return, no pesky reshuffling in the middle of the shoe."

Mark gave all this a considering nod, pleased that his two main sources of information were in agreement. "Sounds like my sort of table."

Farnell nodded back, slow, very indolent. "I've gotten to know one of the dealers. Name's Tony Rigare. Has the last table on the right as you come in. Works evenings."

"Personal friend?"

"Well," Farnell's smile had gone a little shark-like, "I know where he goes after work. Little place, mostly locals, up off the beach a couple of blocks from the casino. He gets off at three a.m. He walks."

Mark felt a twinge of guilt pass across his face. He hoped Farnell hadn't noticed it, but knew the man didn't miss much.

He'd noticed, it appeared. The older man leaned in a little closer and dropped his voice. "If it makes you feel any better, I think he's already skimming, and that's a dangerous game at a place like the Azure. If you can cure him of _that _bad habit, you might be doing him a favor."

"Well," Mark murmured, "let's try to get through this without getting any innocent bystanders killed."

"Hah," Farnell shook his head and smiled as though he'd just heard a rather amusing joke. "Innocent? You haven't spent much time in San Roque, I suppose."

"Actually," Mark replied flatly, "only a week, but it was longer than I wanted."

This got him a non-committal 'hmm' from the older man, followed by, "Have you seen the beachfront walk yet? It's very pleasant." Farnell was already rising. Mark gave him a five minute head-start, then paid his own tab and departed.

He left through the same door that Farnell had exited. He followed the street down toward the beach and encountered him in a shady spot on the hotel boardwalk.

"Three in the morning won't do," Mark said sharply. "Not enough light. What time does he arrive for his shift?"

Farnell frowned. "You should try giving more than one day's notice next time. I've already worked a minor miracle in information acquisition here, and I'm not even sure why I'm doing it for you."

"I was wondering that myself," Mark managed a brief grin. "I figured Aggie Wainwright leaned on you, but still—"

"Yeah, there was that." Farnell's own grin was a little broader. "I have to admit, the first thing I did was check on the status of the extradition treaty between San Roque and the States."

"They're kind of between governments right now." Mark said dryly. "But I don't think the current, ah, 'head of state' is too keen on the idea."

Farnell nodded as though this confirmed what he'd also heard. Then he cocked his head a little. "So, what's the old coot gotten himself into this time?"

"Innocent bystander in the middle of a coup. I think he got swept up with the rest. Rumor is they're in Roca Triste."

Farnell made an unpleasant face. "I hope you aren't expecting me to go anywhere near _that _place."

"Nope, you're job is here." Mark was still looking at him quizzically. "So why did you agree to help?"

"My dear boy," Farnell was smiling, but it had gone a little sly, "how could I resist. I've done damn near everything in my career _except_ orchestrate a regime change." He sighed. "You know a man never thinks he's made enough of a mark on the events of his time."

"I've heard something like that before."

"And, anyway, you know old Hardcase did me a good turn once, way back in the day, when I was just making my start—I don't suppose he'd ever admit to that, though."

"Actually, he told me about it."

"Really? That's interesting. I didn't think he was the kind who ever admitted to mistakes." Farnell gave him a considering look. "And then of course, it never hurts to help someone who might be able to help you later on."

"He'll never do that."

"Not him, Mark, _you_."

McCormick met this with a moment of frowning surprise. Farnell's smile was almost, but not quite pleasant. Mark finally found his voice. "Me neither, not that I think there's much I could do for you, but you should understand that up front."

Farnell was still smiling. "Oh, I think not. You talk a good Hardcastle, but your sense of fair play and his are miles apart. I wonder if he realizes that?"

"Okay, but still," Mark looked a little chagrined, "I'm fresh out of law school, and you're_ retired_, right?"

"Mostly," Farnell grinned. "Though one never knows, eh? And I've always tried to hold to the long view."

"Which doesn't exactly tell me what you think I could do for you," Mark said insistently.

"Well, I wouldn't say I lack for much right now," Farnell drawled, "but sometimes the one thing we can't have is the thing that we begin to want the most. And it might be that sometime—not now mind you—but _someday_, I may wish to visit my natal shores again. A friendly judge in the right place."

"Hardcastle won't—"

"Not him," Farnell replied pointedly.

Mark looked flummoxed. "But _I'll_ never be a judge."

"That's what you think, boy." Farnell grinned.

"If that's what you're waiting for, you'll be stuck in San Rio for a long time."

"I'm willing to wait, and the smart money would say, let's see, maybe fifteen years, tops. God willing." Farnell's grin had broadened. "But first we have to get your mentor out of the clink."

Mark gave this a nod, relieved to get away from the other topic without having to swear any oaths.

"So, when did you plan on kicking this thing off?"

"As soon as possible. We're talking about Roca Triste, remember?"

Farnell gave that a nod. "You want to tag Rigere this afternoon? "

"If possible. We need to have that done before I show up at his table."

"And you'll want to hit the table tonight?"

Mark shook his head. "My capital hasn't arrived yet."

The older man frowned.

"It should be here in the morning," McCormick added hastily.

"Who's bringing it?"

"My accountant."

Farnell's glance was questioning. "That's a lot of dedication from a C.P.A."

"I married her."

A moment of silent surprise and Farnell's grin was back. "Yeah," he said cheerfully, "I suppose there comes a point where you want someone who's more than just decorative. You were a quicker study than I was." He paused, and then, "you aren't going to be your own counter, I hope; that'll get you tossed out pretty fast around here."

"I've got somebody."

"I hope he's good."

"The best."

"Simmons, or Kierson?"

"Hanley."

Farnell frowned. "Never heard of him, but I've been out of the loop for a few years now." He smiled wanly. "Vegas?"

"UCLA, and he's been at it, um," he looked down at his watch, "about ten hours."

Farnell stared in disbelief for a moment and then said, "You're just as crazy as Hardcase."

"Nope," Mark shook his head, "nobody's as crazy as he is, but I run a close second . . . and, anyway, Hanley can do it. I only work with the best."

"Hah, better watch yourself, boy; that came perilously close to a testimonial."

"So you're in? It's going to be more than intelligence gathering before we're through."

Farnell smiled. "I'm in, if only to hear what the old coot says when you finally spring him."

"He can say whatever he wants," Mark said grimly, "as long as he gets a chance to say it."

00000

McCormick waited just off the walkway and fretted. It was still nearly full light, but that wouldn't last much longer. The man across the way, sitting at a bench, looked smoothly unperturbed. He appeared to have no interest whatsoever in anything but the newspaper he held up in front of himself.

The signal was a turn of the page, though exactly how Farnell was tracking on the approaching man was not clear. Mark transferred his own attention to the new-comer, short, thin, with a slight hitch to his gait. Two more steps and he'd be past.

Mark stooped and stood.

"_Senor_, I believe you dropped something." He was right behind the man, holding out the envelope. Tony Rigare turned, a suspicious look on his face. Mark twitched the envelope slightly, drawing his attention to it. He had no desire to make much eye-to-eye contact with the man, though he doubted that a brief encounter on the street would be memorable enough to interfere with the rest of the plan.

"I—" The other man paused, at the start of what might have been a reflexive denial, and regarded the envelope with some curiosity. It was unmarked, and had a certain healthy thickness to it.

Mark held it out, just a little more, with as much finesse as he'd ever used to put a fishing fly precisely in the way of a brook trout. Rigere reached for it, no hesitation now. Undoubtedly he'd noticed the general shape of what was within and drawn his own conclusions.

McCormick held onto it, just a moment longer. It was hard to tell just how long that should be. Enough to get the job done, but not so long as to raise suspicion. As for the contents of the envelope, Rigere wouldn't be able to check until he was alone. Perhaps he'd think the stack of newspaper, cut to conform to the size of the local currency, was someone's idea of a joke.

"It is yours, then, sir?" Mark let the envelope go, and saw the other man nod, tucking it quickly into an inner pocket of his jacket.

Rigere turned away, too quick to retain an illusion of politeness, just as eager to be rid of his good Samaritan as Mark was glad to be quit of him. No doubt he'd open the envelope as soon as he was safely out of sight. _A joke, a prank. _And no attention had been spared, not even a second glance, for the man who'd presented it to him.

Mark smiled thinly as he turned and strolled away, hands casually in his pockets, cultivating an air of the ordinary. From the corner of his eye, he saw that the man on the bench was already on his feet, newspaper folded and tucked under one arm. Mark didn't risk looking back; there was no point to it. It had either worked, or it hadn't, and they wouldn't know until they got the pictures developed.

00000

Olivares was dispatched to the overnight photo place. McCormick and Farnell retreated to the hotel. It was now past dinner-time but Mark had no appetite. The older man eyed him with what might have been concern.

"You better learn to pace yourself," he said. "It's going to be a haul and you can't afford to lose your edge."

"I won't," Mark replied stiffly, reaching up to rub his temple, then dropping his hand back down in sudden self-consciousness. "Anyway, I'd better go check on Paul."

Farnell smiled. "When do I get to meet this whiz kid?"

"You don't." He winced. It had come out a little sharp, and he couldn't really afford to piss off his co-conspirator.

But Farnell just shrugged lightly. "Just curious, that's all. A guy likes to know who he's betting his life on, that's all."

"You're trusting _my_ judgment on this, aren't you?" Mark didn't wait for an answer, quickly adding, "And I trust Paul. He'll get it done."

Farnell cocked his head and produced a thin, wolfish smile. "And you think maybe I'll lead him down the primrose path? Your faith in my powers of corruption is touching."

McCormick shook his head; wondering if it was very convincing. "Anyway, it doesn't make any sense. The less any of us are seen together, the better. I'm just going to make sure he's all set for tomorrow, that's all. You wait down here for Olivares. I'll be back in a few minutes."

He ducked away to the elevator before Farnell could comment. In truth he just wanted to be away from the man for a few minutes, and the last thing he'd ever do would be to let Paul risk falling into that gravitational field.

He summoned the elevator and stepped onto it, feeling an almost palpable relief as the doors closed. He thought himself fairly immune to the man's peculiar charm, and he was beginning to think that enlisting his aid was like trying to harness lightning. Too late for such concerns now, and only one risk among so many that he'd begun to lose count.

The quiet ding startled him out of the pensive moment. He sighed and drew his shoulder back as the elevator opened on Paul's floor. No room for doubt here, not that he thought Paul was much affected by what other people thought about things.

He tapped on the door lightly twice and heard some movement from within. "It's me," he said quietly. He heard the security bolt being thrown back. _Good, a little caution for once._ He slipped in through the half-open door. Paul closed it hastily behind him. Mark frowned into the dimly-lit room, only the bedside lamp on, and that to the lowest setting.

There was a tray on the table by the window. The meal on it looked barely touched. There was an open pack of card alongside it.

"You don't have to stay holed up in here," McCormick said casually. "If you wanted to go down to the restaurant—"

"It's okay," Paul muttered. "I wasn't all that hungry. Just thought I ought to get something."

Mark nodded approvingly, trying to keep the puzzlement off his face. He hadn't thought of Paul as the type for the jitters. He'd seen the kid do insanely dangerous things without so much as a moment's hesitation.

"You aren't worried, are you?" He half expected a derisive protest, at least a quick denial. He got only silence. "It's only a card game," he said reassuringly. "You'll probably be bored."

Paul had edged past him and over to the table. He sat down. He nodded, but it was slow, as though he was elsewhere and merely pretending to follow the conversation.

"Worse comes to worst," Mark said, pulling out the chair across from him and taking a seat, "they'll toss me out. Maybe you, too, but probably not. I mean, they probably won't figure out who's doing the counting." He picked up the deck, idly, and put it down again.

"Queen of spades," Paul said, a little flat.

Mark twitched, looking up at him suddenly, then back down at the deck. He turned over the top card. A spade, the queen. He smiled.

"Two of hearts."

He turned it, as well. His smile broadened.

"Six of clubs, eight of spades, eight of hearts, two of diamonds—"

Mark turned over the next three, but almost lost the count as Paul's pace began to pick up.

"—four of diamonds, king of hearts, six of diamonds—"

"Okay," he started to say, with a smile, "I—"

"—ten of clubs—"

"Paul—"

"—three of diamonds—"

"_Paul_."

The younger man stopped, taking a deep, almost ragged breath, still staring down at the deck. He seemed to be biting down, fighting off an urge to continue.

Mark tried to keep the worry off his face. He arranged his voice in the most matter-of-fact tone. "That's . . . impressive." He couldn't help it, a frown had crept in. "How long does it take?"

"It doesn't." Paul own voice had flattened. "It's a little hard to hold the whole deck in a fan." He let some of the tension out of his shoulders, his eyes regaining some focus. "If you dealt four five-card hands right now," he said, cocking his head, his eyes half closed as though he was listening to an inner voice, "the player to your left would have a pair of fives, and three face cards."

There was something hopeless in the way he said it, at the same time it left no room for doubt.

"Not normal, huh?" he said, softer still. "I thought everybody could do it, when I was growing up. I remember . . . ah . . . my mom, she could fan them, the whole deck, then shuffle 'em, one to one—she could do a perfect Faro shuffle—then call them off before she dealt them. The whole deck," he murmured.

"She must have been amazing," Mark said quietly.

"Hah." The sharpness in the young man's tone was sudden and startling. "She was a raving schizophrenic, remember?"

Mark said nothing.

"Oh," Paul's shoulders slouching in after a moment, "but she was past raving by the time you met her, right?"

Mark took a breath. Paul's mother had been, near as he could figure, catatonic the one time he'd seen her, in a nursing home south of Las Vegas. He'd known, vaguely, that she had a job in one of the casinos, before her life and Paul's had imploded, sometime before his twelfth birthday.

That this little excursion might be a trip down memory lane had not even occurred to McCormick. He supposed he'd have to blame that on his own level of anxiety. Now it seemed obvious. He sighed. He spoke, weighing the words out carefully, trying to address the one thing he knew frightened Paul Hanley.

"You can be like somebody, but not _exactly_ like them. It sounds like she was smart, amazingly smart. Glow-in-the-dark smart. But smart is not the same as crazy."

There was silence for a moment, then Paul managed a wan and not very relieved smile. "No," he finally said, "but sometimes I think it's step one."

Mark shook his head. If nothing else, this little episode had been the first thing, in the past two days, to take his mind off his own troubles even briefly. He got to his feet and looked around the claustrophobically anonymous hotel room one last time.

"Listen," he said, "you ought to eat something, and then why don't you go out? Get some air. If you sit up in here all the time it'll look weird." He winced. "I mean you're supposed to be on vacation. Go for a walk or something."

Paul nodded in glum agreement.

Mark moved toward the door, throwing one last, quick, worried look over his shoulder. "Just don't get mugged or anything."

To his surprise, this last remark won him a quick smile from Hanley. "Mugged? Nah, do I look worth mugging?" Paul waved him off unceremoniously, looking as if he'd settled back into the comfort zone of sardonic humor.

He gazed at the gangly young man, his unfashionable attire and his slightly otherworldly air. He smiled and said, "I suppose not . . . but that doesn't mean it wouldn't happen." Then he nodded once more and departed.

00000

He found Arthur Farnell had retreated back to a corner of the lounge. Olivares had obviously come and gone.

"Perfect," Farnell said, as he thumbed through the prints and then handed them over to McCormick.

"Not bad," Mark conceded. "Wish I'd gotten him to face the street a bit more."

"Don't be so picky. They'll do just fine." Then the man glanced up quickly at him and, apparently not liking what he saw, fixed him with a longer gaze. "Everything okay upstairs?"

"No problem there," Mark said. Again it had come out a little sharp. But after that he had nothing else to say. He eased back in his seat, took a sip of his tonic water, and gathered up the photos.

Farnell was frowning now. He glanced down at this watch. "Getting on," he said. "Ought to eat something."

Mark put the photos back into the envelope, and that into his pocket. "Not hungry," he finally said, after what must have been too long a pause. Farnell wasn't looking pleased. McCormick hastened in to do repairs. "Tired. We're pretty much done here for today."

Farnell's expression had gone piercing.

"Didn't get much sleep last night," Mark offered. "I need to catch up." He made a move to stand; something in Farnell's expression pinned him where he sat.

"You used to have 'em," the older man said.

"Have what?" Mark asked reluctantly.

"The reflexes. The _nerve_. I can tell that about people when I see them work. You had it. This'd be a bad time to lose it. Too much thinking on this will bring the whole thing down on top of you." Farnell's smile was thin. "And whoever else happens to be standing next to you."

"Don't worry," Mark said, trying to radiate a confidence that he didn't feel. "I haven't lost any of it."

"Maybe not." The older man lifted his shoulders slightly then dropped them. "Just might be too much thinking."

McCormick frowned at him, trying not to think too hard about thinking. It didn't work. He pinched the bridge of his nose, then leaned forward slightly and dropped his voice. "You've never been there, have you? That damn place."

Farnell gave the very slightest shake of his head.

"Well," Mark exhaled, "I _have_." He saw the other man's eyebrow rise just slightly.

He suddenly realized that sharing his impressions of Roca Triste with Farnell was a bad tactical move, though he also suspected that there wasn't much about San Roque that the man hadn't already gotten at least secondhand information on, and that prison conditions had probably been high on the list of importance. He pushed tactics aside. He needed to talk to someone, and Farnell could at least understand.

"It's a damn dungeon," he said on half a breath, little more than a whisper. "Solitary confinement, a _hole_. No light, none at all. After a while, the darkness starts to vibrate. You know what I mean? _That_ dark."

The other man said nothing.

"And me," Mark edged back again, evened his voice out a little, "I had coping mechanisms. Stuff that I did. Usually worked—"

Farnell gave this the nod of a man who'd probably had some time to work on his own.

"—not in that place, though. You just start hallucinating, that's all. It just happens." McCormick shook his head. "You may _think_ you've still got it together, but you don't . . . Anyway, I came out of it okay, but . . . it took awhile. I know I wasn't thinking too clearly right after I got out." He looked up suddenly. "And that was only five days."

"Hardcase is a pretty tough old bird." Farnell offered another slight shrug.

"Yeah," Mark agreed, "and in a place like that, if you don't bend, you break."

00000

In the end, he had let Farnell drag him to the restaurant, and had made a decent effort at ordering and chewing and swallowing, though an hour later he had not much recollection of what had been set in front of him. It was late enough to lie down on the bed in his room, though absolutely hopeless in terms of sleeping.

Still early in LA. He hesitated before reaching for the phone. The odds of any single phone call being overheard by anyone who mattered were low, but he would still have to be circumspect.

The long-distance connection took a while to go through, and then the ringing went on long enough that he had almost given up before she finally picked up, a little breathless.

"Hello?" Far away and slightly crackly but oh so welcome.

"It's me," he replied, hoping he didn't sound as relieved as he felt.

"Everything okay?" she asked.

It wasn't, but he realized it was somehow better now and he said, "Yeah, coming along fine. Met an old friend, took a few nice pictures, and found a casino that has just the kind of action I like. It's shaping up to be a good trip." He said it all with an air of casually provided information.

Kathy said, "Sounds good," in precisely the same tone.

"Everything okay at your end?"

"Better than I'd hoped, and I'm right on schedule."

Mark let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Good," he said. "That's good . . . I'll see you soon." It was unnecessary, but a comfort to say it out loud.

"Yeah," she replied, and then, a little more concern in her tone, "You sure you're okay. You're eating, aren't you?"

Mark almost smiled. "I promise," he said, "I'm fine. You get some sleep, okay?"

"You, too."

He hung up, and lay back on the un-turned-down covers. He left the lamp on, studying the ceiling and thinking about what Farnell had said, all that nonsense about reflexes. The thing was, he understood exactly what the man meant—all those times he had done what needed to be done, putting all his markers in the hands of fate without much conscious thought to the consequences. This time though, it was more than his own life on the line—there were Kathy and Paul, and Frank as well.

At least Farnell, he figured, had both instincts for self-preservation, and enough karmic debt to qualify him to deserve anything up to being struck by lightning, _twice_. Chances were, though, that Artie would have on his thickest rubber soles when the storm clouds finally rolled in.

Mark draped one arm across his forehead and ran all the angles one more time, hoping sleep would eventually sneak up on him. Tomorrow was going to be a long day.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 3—January 4th **

Bringing money into San Roque was easy, and was frequently done in large amounts, in the form of cash, for any number of reasons—most often not the ones stated to the customs officers. Mark hadn't had much concern that Kathy would encounter any difficulties there. Still he was glad to see her enter the hotel lobby, looking cheerful and unharrassed, like a woman with not too much on her mind.

Behind her a short ways, and not in anyway appearing to be _with_ her, was Frank, in casual dress, wearing a Hawaiian shirt that Mark recognized as a gift from Hardcastle. The irony quirked a half-hearted smile from him, but mostly he was relieved that Kathy had had him as an unattached bodyguard for the trip down.

He waited for her to finish the checking-in process, then got to his feet, moving slowly, with no particular intent. He picked up the small suitcase he'd brought down from his room, the indistinguishable twin of the one she was carrying.

He watched the bellhop move in to assist her. She let him take charge of all but that one case, demurring gently. Very nice, controlled, no particular fuss. Mark angled toward the elevator, beating them by a hair. As the doors opened they moved in to the back, alongside each other but at the proper distance for strangers. The bellhop perforce took the front, with her other two bags in hand. Mark half-smiled at the touch. Kathy usually traveled light.

No words, except for a request from him.

"Fourth floor."

As the bellhop reached forward to push the additional button, Mark casually set his bag down. The switch was made in a moment. A moment later they arrived at four. He politely eased past the still forward-facing and burdened man, with only a distant nod that might have been to the woman, or to no one in particular.

He stepped out and the doors closed behind him. And then he walked slowly back to his room, feeling the heft of $100,000 dollars in medium-sized bills.

00000

He moved through the casino like a man who took nothing, not even gambling, seriously. A nice suit, very nice cut, but lightweight, casual. He'd gotten some advice from Farnell on that, and though they'd had to work off the rack, the alterations were by the best tailor in town.

He held a half-dozen black chips in his right hand, riffling through them absent-mindedly now and then, not flashily, but casual again, as if the six hundred dollars was a bit of a nuisance and there was more where that came from. He drifted, alighted, played a little craps, breaking even or slightly better. He bet large but looked bored.

He moved, with no apparent pattern, gradually in the direction of the blackjack tables, but paused for a while, flagged a hostess and procured a drink, tipped well, and looked bored again.

The dealer at the first table looked bored, too, though he was being polite about it. The action at his table was slow. A few customers had come and gone, but one kid stayed. He was gangly, even sitting down. He appeared to be getting the most from his pile of chips, taking no chances, not intense, but cautious, like he'd learned the rules from a book and still had to stop and think about them.

The man in the nice suit drifted a little again, as though he was considering poker, but then decided it was too much effort. He strolled, he gandered. He riffled the chips, but there was nothing impatient about it.

The kid played on. He looked a little too young to be spending time in a casino—a college student, maybe, still winding down his holiday break. If that was the case, he was the only one in San Roque who wasn't busted down to his last dime and wiring mom and dad for emergency funds.

He seemed to know when to hit, and when to stand, and did it with a studied air. Two more players came in, and soon departed. The show was starting in the main lounge; there were distant sounds of a band over the noises of the slot machines. The dealer dealt.

A hostess passed behind in the aisle by the table and, almost as though it was an afterthought, the gangly player signaled for a drink, it appeared to be the first one he'd had in front of him that night. The dealer sighed, almost imperceptibly. Maybe he hoped it would loosen the kid up a little.

The man in the suit moved in, smiling lightly.

00000

With the first hand, Mark thought maybe Paul had gotten his wires crossed, though he knew there were no guarantees in card counting, hence the deep pockets. Still, he'd been hoping to drop in and have a statistically improbable run of luck, not just an eventual profit. If this didn't turn quickly in his favor, he'd have to get up and try again the next night, and he didn't have that time to waste.

The tide turned on the next few hands and Mark's black chips spawned purple. He saw the pit boss out of the corner of his eye, moving purposefully in his direction. Mark eased back in his seat and crossed his legs. Two tables over a balding drunk in a tacky Hawaiian shirt half-stood at his table and complained loudly that his dealer was a cheat. The words were slightly slurred, but carried well. The man, unmollified by the dealer's quiet assurances, turned and stumbled into one of the hostesses.

Drinks flew, spreading the unhappiness among innocent bystanders. It wasn't enough commotion to shut things down outside the immediate sphere of damage, but the pit boss was diverted for a few moments, getting irate patrons sorted out, and the now-apologetic drunk escorted away.

The shoe was nearly played out with that hand. Mark scooped up his pile of chips, tossed in a handsome tip and walked away.

The kid waited patiently for the next deal.

00000

Mark wandered again, a few moments over by the door, watching Frank detach himself safely from his security escort and depart, his gait now steady. He made another trip to the craps table, no stunning luck there. And finally back again, to a spot not obviously an observation post. He might have merely been looking all the tables over, trying to get a feel for the dealers.

Paul continued on, steadily. Focused, and unvarying in his play except according to the accepted principles of the game, a model of book learning, with just enough luck to preserve his small hoard of chips and keep him afloat.

The ice in his drink had melted away. The kid didn't seem to mind. He took a sip between hands and set the glass down on the edge of the paper coaster.

Mark ambled over to the table again, nodding once to the dealer and taking a seat. The man hesitated in the deal, looked around briefly, then settled down again. One run of luck might just be that—luck, pure and simple. As if to underline the point, Mark and Paul both lost to a natural on the next hand.

The dealer smiled sympathetically and provided some consoling patter. Paul said nothing but Mark encouraged the talk. More hands, and the luck shifted back again, alighting on his shoulder and not departing for a run of four games. McCormick didn't have to work at his pleasant astonishment.

The dealer's smile was still in place, but it was more perfunctory and professional. Another hand, another big bet, the man's eyes were glancing to the side, obviously searching for the pit boss again. Mark riffled through one of his stacks of chips, a quick count. He'd more than exceeded his expectations for a night's work. The pit boss was on the move again. One more riffle and a tap on the table for good luck.

A piercing scream rent the air, followed by a shrieking gasp. "A mouse!"

There was a sudden drop in the general noise level, followed by some snickers and a couple of helpful, if rude, comments, but also a few hasty departures from the area where the screaming lady stood.

Mark smiled. He'd known the woman in question to prohibit the use of traps when he'd found evidence of mass grass-seed consumption in the garage. All suspects would have to be rounded up and politely escorted outside. The seed could be henceforth stored in a tin.

But the shriek had done the trick: traffic patterns disrupted, the pit boss once again up to his elbows in clamor. Mark stood, again collected his chips, tipped even more generously, and melted into the crowd. This time he didn't go far, just off enough to the side that he could observe the lady, charmingly hysterical, being comforted by the obviously aggravated staff.

Eventually she accepted a glass of water. Sipping from it, and then dabbing at her eyes with a hankie, she allowed herself to be escorted from the peril, watching the floor carefully the whole way.

Mark followed a discreet distance back. She asked for a cab at the door, looking still shaken. He watched her embark. There was some considerable eye rolling as the staff turned back to reenter the building, but it still all seemed in a day's work. Mark suspected the exterminator service would be getting a stern talking-to in the morning.

He let out a breath, rattled the chips in his pocket, a considerable number more than he'd started with and in far more valuable colors. He returned to the cashier. After completing that transaction he crossed the main floor again, skirting further away from the blackjack tables, still within sight of the one on the end, but approaching from behind the dealer.

Paul still played, his pile of chips neither appreciably increased nor diminished. Mark stood a ways off, unwilling to move in and risk catching the dealer's eye again. He waited patiently for the kid to conclude the session. It was good, he supposed, that Paul was not linking his own departure too closely to the table's recent big winner.

Good up to a point.

McCormick checked his watch again. He waited for Paul to lift his head for a moment, so that he could issue some subtle signals that the game was up and he could call it a night. Paul's eyes never rose further than the green baize table top, and his play continued, methodical and unvarying. He didn't look around; he took no more sips from the glass beside him.

A half-hour passed, Mark trying hard not to show his rising concern. He finally granted himself one firm pinch on the bridge of his nose and a quick shake of his head. Paul didn't notice that, either.

He turned on his heel and headed to the bank of phones toward the back, near the restrooms. He chose the one at the far end, dialed the hotel switchboard and then requested Kathy's room. Six rings, he was about to give up and try for Harper when she answered.

"It's me," Mark said.

"What's wrong?"

Mark had been on the verge of asking her the same question; she sounded slightly breathless. He settled for, "You okay?"

"Yes, fine. You're done, aren't you?"

"Ah, yeah, but we've got a little problem." He hesitated, not wanting to say too much on a public phone in such a public place. He kept it vague. "I need someone to pick up Paul."

"Where?" she asked, sounding slightly confused.

"Right where we left him," Mark said cryptically. "He's still playing."

There was thick, increasingly puzzled silence from Kathy's end.

"But he might have just lost track of time," Mark added, "maybe."

"Okay," Kathy said slowly, "I can head back over there."

"Good. I didn't want to, um, disturb him. You might need to talk to him a bit."

More silence, and then she said, very quietly, "How bad is it?"

"I don't know," Mark replied. "Just come and talk to him, okay?"

He hung up and headed back into the casino. Nothing much had changed at the table. Perhaps there were a few more chips in front of Paul, no visible reaction on his part.

A few more minutes passed and the kid reached for the glass at his right hand, its contents now diluted to a pale amber. He lifted it, seemed startled by the action, and put it back down without taking a sip. He blinked a few times, and looked around distractedly, then appeared briefly baffled by something the dealer said. A moment later he indicated, almost absently, that he would take a hit on the hand in front of him.

He looked around briefly, but before Mark could get his attention, Kathy came up on the boy's left side. Back at the hotel, she'd apparently swapped out her contacts for a pair of glasses, and changed into a different outfit. There was a different gait as well—confident and professional. To the quick and casual eye there was little resemblance between this woman and the one who had set the place on end less than an hour earlier.

She leaned in and touched Paul lightly on the shoulder. He stared up at her, appearing only briefly puzzled. He'd met her before, back at the estate two days ago. The kid's eyes roamed past her; he'd apparently caught sight of Mark as well. He looked flustered but kept silent.

The hand ended. Another win on a small bet. Paul stood clumsily and gathered up his winnings, ahead by a small amount in the evening's play. Tony Rigere looked unsurprised as the younger man wandered off without bothering to tip. As for the woman who had him gently by the arm, a bit too young to be his mother, she might have been a doting aunt or perhaps his keeper.

Rigere appeared to spare it no more thought, and set up the next deal.

00000

"How'd it go?"

The voice made him jump, coming from behind, and out of the dark, though he'd expected it.

He flushed a little in embarrassment, and then, as though to compensate for his twitch, he turned slowly to face the other man. Farnell was standing casually, hands in his pockets, facing out toward the beach, appearing to be enjoying the moonlight view.

"It went okay," Mark replied, hoping the slight hesitation hadn't given anything away. "And your part?"

"Coming along nicely." Farnell turned and flashed a smile. "Our man already _has_ a foreign bank account. That'll save you no end of time and trouble. It's in San Rio, of all places."

"Another one won't hurt. It's already set up. I just need to plug in the data."

Farnell fished some papers out of his pocket and handed them over. Then he cocked his head. "That was your whiz kid and CPA that I saw leaving L'Azure tonight, huh?"

Mark nodded, not even looking up from trying to read the papers by streetlamp light.

"He looked a little, ah, done in."

"He got it done," Mark said flatly. He finally lifted his gaze. "And what were you doing over there, and how'd you recognize them?"

Farnell smiled. "I like to keep an eye on things."

Unfortunately, with what was on the line, Mark could hardly blame him. He thought that one over for a fraction of a second and then conceded with a nod. "Like I said, he got it done. I won a pile, and I did it very selectively at Rigere's table." And then, redirecting the conversation, he added, "Tomorrow morning," he glanced at his watch, "I mean _this_ morning, we tackle him."

"You can set up the account that fast?"

"Won't matter. I don't want to wait. We've got the photos; I'll do the pitch. We may not even need the rest of the documentation. Sounds like you were right; he's already got a lot to hide."

"This morning, huh? Ten o'clock?"

"Seven," Mark insisted. "We'll wake him up; he'll be easier to rattle."

"_I_ was hoping to get a little sleep." Farnell sniffed.

"You can do that when it's over."

The older man shook his head and smiled. "All those years of yard work. It's ruined you." The he turned and walked away.

Mark folded the papers and slipped them into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. Tropical weight or not, he was no longer feeling as crisp as he had started out this evening. He trudged back to his own transportation, wearily waving Henrico Olivares' car to the curb. He opened the door for himself and climbed into the backseat.

"Listen," McCormick said, "I need a phone. Private and long distance. You think that's still a possibility here?"

"Not at the hotel," the driver admitted. "My house, probably."

Mark sat back. He normally disliked being a passenger, but the past forty-eight hours were catching up with him, and in those odd moments when he wasn't dripping adrenalin he felt things getting a little fuzzy.

_Maybe Paul had just been a bit tired, too._

In truth, the kid had done his job and could be packed off back to LA, but his guardian—_he's nineteen, now, he doesn't have a guardian—_Stephan Mlotkowski, a emeritus professor at the university, was off at a conference in Poland. It had been damn convenient three days ago. Now the idea of putting Paul on a plane to go back to an empty house seemed ill-advised.

He didn't have Mlotkowski's overseas number, and he doubted he could get it from Paul. To ask for it would be an admission that something was wrong, and even if they agreed that there _was_ a problem, Paul had already told him once, a few years back, that he hated worrying the man.

Not Mlotkowski, then.

It came out as a half-voiced muse. "You don't realize it . . ."

"What?" Olivares asked.

"Oh," Mark pulled himself together, though it still came out softly, "how often you talk to somebody—get advice, I mean—until you haven't got him there to talk to."

The driver nodded.

McCormick sank into the seat again, now back to worrying about the man in question, as well as Paul. But there was _one_ other person he could call. He even had the number in his wallet.

00000

He checked his watch one more time after Olivares settled him at the kitchen table with the phone. He pulled the tattered piece of paper out of his wallet, where he'd kept it for four years now, on some subconscious precognition. Despite the time difference it would still be after midnight back in LA. He sighed and dialed anyway.

The usual slightly distant, tinny ring of an international call, three of them, then four. He was starting to think perhaps Westerfield wasn't home, maybe still out of town for the holidays.

Then a drowsy, "Hello?"

"Doc? Hi, it's Mark McCormick. Sorry—sorry to bother you, but it's an emergency, I think."

"_Mark_?" The voice on the other end had gotten suddenly a lot more awake. "What's the matter?"

"Ah, you remember my friend Paul? You met him once a few years ago."

There was only the briefest moment's pause and then he said, "Yeah." There was a definite edge of concern there. "Mark, this isn't a very good connection; maybe I ought to—"

"It's long distance," McCormick interrupted. "International. We're in San Roque."

More silence. Then, "Both of you?" What followed might have been a heavily exhaled breath.

"Yeah," Mark said. "He was helping me out on a little project."

"San Roque," Westerfield repeated quietly. Another moment of silence, then a click, as though perhaps he'd reached over and turned on a lamp. "I read something in the paper about them recently." A very small sound, maybe a temple being rubbed. "They're not going nuclear, are they?"

"Um, no. Just a coup."

The next sound was another breath, either a sigh of relief or perhaps disbelief.

Mark didn't give him time to ask anymore pointed questions. He split the evening's activities off from their context and gave an anxiously concise description of Paul's behavior.

Westerfield didn't interrupt and Mark got it all out in a few breathless sentences. When he was done, he finally paused a moment before asking, "What do you think?"

There was no immediate answer. A few seconds ticked by before the psychiatrist said, "I don't suppose you could tell me _why_ he was in a casino in San Roque?" He didn't wait long for Mark not to answer, just long enough for a weary sigh. "Okay, maybe I should talk to him."

"He's not here. He's back at the hotel."

"By himself?"

"No. Someone's with him. I, ah, didn't want to call from there."

"From his room?"

"No, from the hotel. There's a switchboard there." Mark cringed.

There was silence from the other end, but undoubtedly a whole lot of thinking going on.

"There's some stuff I don't really want to talk about on the phone," Mark added. _There, now, that helped a lot. He'll probably figure Paul's fine and you're paranoid._

Instead, he got a quiet, "Okay," from the other end of the line, it sounded more like understanding than doubt. Then, "Is the judge there?"

"Sort of." Mark left it at that. He thought Westerfield's use of the title by itself was an indication that the man was catching on. It didn't surprise him. The next part did, though.

"Do you need me there?"

The offer was simply stated and obviously sincere. Mark shook his head, not sure why he was so astonished, and said, "No, unless you think—"

"A psychotic break? Paul? No, course I can't be sure without at least talking with him some, but from your description—the circumstances—I think more likely a post-traumatic episode."

Mark let out a breath in relief, eager to believe what he was hearing.

"You'll be able to tell a lot better in the next day or so. Don't stress him; let him rest." There was a slight hesitation, an almost audible frown, and then, "I think you can get Valium over-the-counter down there, but I wouldn't resort to that unless you have to."

"Thanks." Mark rubbed his forehead and leaned his elbows on the table. "And thanks for the offer. I appreciate it."

"If you need me—"

"I'll call."

"Is the judge okay?" There was no insistence, only concern.

"I hope so." McCormick took another breath and let it out. "Thanks."

They exchanged good-byes and Mark hung up, looking at his watch yet again and then getting to his feet slowly. Olivares was stretched out on the sofa in the next room, but apparently not asleep. He got up, too, as the receiver was cradled.

"Back to the hotel?" he asked.

Mark nodded wearily.

00000

It was nearly four AM and there were fewer people in the lobby, none on the elevator when he boarded it. He pushed the button to Kathy's floor. No one in the hallway there, either. So far, so good. He tapped quietly on the door.

She opened it. Mark stepped in without a word. The room was dimly lit, only the wall lamp next to the luggage rack was lit. Two double beds, the standard hotel layout. Paul was curled up on the nearest bed, on the covers but under the coverlet which had been hauled off the other bed.

There was a table by the window and on it a pad, pen, and calculator. She'd obviously been working there. She looked pale and strained.

"How is he?"

Asleep was the obvious answer. "Better, I think," was what she said. "We talked for a bit. He made sense. He seemed awfully tired. I don't think he's slept since he got down here."

Mark nodded once. He understood that.

"You know his mother was an accountant for one of the big casinos. I mean before . . ." She made a vague gesture meant to indicate what had come after that—a stepward slide into insanity.

"Paul thinks it was some kind of flashback, that and not sleeping. He said he just lost track of things for a minute—"

"More than a minute," Mark said quietly.

"Okay, well, he said it seemed like that, just stuck in the moment, that's all, and nothing but the cards in front of him." She shook her head. "You knew that he grew up in Vegas, that his mom—"

"Yeah, I did." Mark cast one more quick glance at the figure on the bed. "I think I lost track for a bit, too, setting things up."

"He wouldn't want you to."

"Huh?" Mark looked up from a muse.

"Milt," she said gently. "He wouldn't want you to lose track. Get too focused on the one thing."

"I _know_," he said, trying to keep the belligerence out of his voice. "It's just—"

"I understand. Really. I do. When my dad was dying, I would have done anything."

Mark ran his fingers through his hair.

"Listen," he finally said, "I have to meet Farnell again in a couple of hours."

"I'll keep Paul here." She frowned and gestured to the bottle on the nightstand. "Did you know you can get Valium down here without a prescription?" She didn't wait for an answer. "I sent Frank out for something earlier; that's what the pharmacist gave him. He's probably going to sleep for a while yet."

"Good," Mark said, "I think, and _thanks_ . . . I better go get changed." But he stood there a moment longer, reluctant to leave.

"Take a nap, maybe."

"Not a good idea." He knew his smile was a little grim. "If I lie down now, I'll never get up." he stooped a little to give her one fairly chaste peck on the cheek, received a sudden, slightly fierce one on the lips, in return, and then tore himself away with the promise, "I'll let you know as soon as I'm back."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 4—January 5th**

It was not quite yet dawn, but there was enough light to see. Farnell appeared to have no problem with going point on the mission. He already knew the neighborhood, the house, and the locks, from his earlier excursion. McCormick had guessed correctly, that barely four hours after he left work there were no signs of life from the small stucco home that Rigere lived in alone.

They made it all the way into the bedroom before the man stirred beneath the covers, and by the time his eyes startled open Farnell's gloved hand was over the dealer's mouth. A grunt of surprise, that was all, and then the man held still, despite the fact that no weapon had been shown.

Instead, the thing that had captured his attention was a purple chip, held up between McCormick's thumb and index finger—more than a week's wages for a dealer at the Azure. He let it fall carelessly onto the rumpled covers.

"It's your lucky day, Tony," McCormick said in a tone that might have implied a blade beneath silk.

Another grunt—surprised and probably doubtful.

"Or maybe not so lucky," Farnell hissed into his ear. "It all depends."

Mark reached over and turned on the lamp at the bedside, adjusting it so that the light fell mostly on Rigere's face.

"We know what you've been up to," he said casually. The man's eyes widened. "The bank account, the skimming."

Rigere was shaking his head vigorously, despite Farnell's firm grip.

"You think you covered your tracks pretty well, huh?" Mark smiled. "Doesn't really matter, though, Tony, because we've gone and made a whole new trail with your name on it." He reached into his jacket pocket. "How hard a time did the pit boss give you tonight, letting me walk off with that bundle? You told him it happens, I'll bet. Just a bad run of luck for the house." Mark was still smiling. "Wait'll he sees these."

He flipped up the first of the photos taken two days earlier. Rigere's eyes widened even further.

"There's a bank account with your name on it in the Caymans, too, Tony, maybe not quite as nice as that stash you've got over in San Rio, but more than a guy could put away from tips." Mark's smile had gone feral. "Thing is, you could actually live to enjoy those hard-earned savings, if you cooperate."

Rigere looked once quickly to the side, taking in Farnell's equally wolfish expression. He nodded, cautiously, and the grip appeared to ease off some, just enough to let him gasp a breath and say, "What do you want?"

Mark considered this for a moment and then said, "How about a cup of coffee to start?"

00000

It had gone fairly smoothly after that, with Farnell taking Rigere line by line through a selected list of L'Azure employees, then over a layout of the establishment, and finishing up with some essential notes on the day-to-day operation. Three hours later the two men departed, in full daylight and from the front door. Rigere looked a little nervous about this, glancing up and down the street anxiously as he saw them off.

Mark gave him a firm pat on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Tony. We pull this off and you'll have friends in high places."

"And if we don't," Farnell added, "you're dead meat, no matter what. So you'd better hope everything you told us is on the up-and-up."

Rigere nodded, but still looked in a hurry to get the door between him and them closed.

"We'll be in touch," Mark said cheerfully.

"We know where you live," Farnell smiled thinly.

The door shut. McCormick let out a breath and they both turned and headed for the street. He gave Farnell a sideward, questioning glance.

"I was figuring it would take a lot longer. Where'd ya get that list and the diagrams?"

"A helpful civil servant, someone who's worried."

"Maybe this'll be easier than I thought," McCormick speculated, "if there's some loyalists left in the bureaucracy."

"Cost me five hundred."

Mark frowned. "Roquian pesos?"

"Dollars. American. I didn't get a receipt but I'm keeping a running tab," Farnell said dryly.

McCormick shook his head, reached into his pocket, and fished out another purple chip. He flipped it over to the older man.

Farnell snatched it in midair and smiled. "Loyalists. Hah. What has Hardcase been feeding you?"

Mark dug both his hands into his jacket pockets and strode along, head down, saying nothing.

"See," Farnell continued, "I work on the assumption that ninety-five percent of the people I deal with are corrupt . . . and the other five just haven't had their price met yet."

McCormick grimaced.

"Well," Farnell nudged him lightly with an elbow, "if it makes you feel any better, you're still in the five percent."

00000

Olivares met them at the appointed corner. Mark and Farnell climbed in. Almost before they had pulled away from the curb, the driver began to speak.

"Success, I think. My cousin, Ernesto, you remember him? He worked at the hotel."

Mark nodded.

"He married a nice girl, moved up to one of the villages, up in the hills. I drove up there this morning, talked to him. You know the villagers, they don't trust the casino men, don't trust Ruiz, either."

"Do they know how to contact Alvarez?" McCormick asked, trying not to sound impatient. "Is there any kind of résistance?"

"Maybe yes. There _might_ be. No one trusts anyone these days. And they have no weapons."

Farnell scratched his chin. "Going to be a seller's market here, with the coup and all. Might be better to import them. Get more bang for your buck."

Mark gave him a sharp glance.

"Well," Farnell shrugged, "I have sources in San Rio, nice products, nice price. And Aggie could do the transport."

"Brute force isn't going to work here," Mark said.

"No, but even if you pull the rest of this off, you're going to need a strike team in position. They can't walk in there with just poker chips."

Olivares nodded solemnly in agreement.

"Okay," Mark finally conceded, still doubtful. "Drop me off at the hotel," he said to Olivares. "I'll send Frank out, and let Aggie know you're coming. You guys talk it over, work out the details. San Rio this afternoon. How soon can you get it done and be back?"

"There's a one o'clock flight. We can be back in six or seven hours."

McCormick nodded and then, to Olivares, he added, "Drop them at the airport, then get back up to your cousin, let him know what we're bringing. We'll need to meet with Alvarez or we won't hand anything over, got that?"

The driver looked worried. "These men, they are very nervous; they will suspect it is a trap."

"Tell them Frank Harper will be there; tell them Alvarez has worked with him before."

"They don't like the _policia_ very much up in the hills."

"Tell them—" Mark frowned. "What the hell, tell them anything you like, just make it work, Henrico. Please?"

They were at the curb in front of the hotel. Mark climbed out, shook his now-damp jacket loose from his back, and took the steps to the lobby doors two at a time.

00000

"Gun running?" Frank asked in disbelief.

Mark lost count for the third time. He stopped, then just picked up another bundle of bills, added it to the rest, and shoved it into the case.

"Here, this ought to be enough. Now, _go_. He said he'd be parked around the corner. You've got a one o'clock flight to catch."

Harper started to open his mouth again, but hesitated. Mark suspected there was something in his expression that was no longer brooking argument. The lieutenant merely shook his head, took the now-closed case by the handle, and started to turn.

"Frank," Mark said.

The other man looked back.

"Just be careful, will ya? I mean, Farnell. I don't trust him."

"Well, you coulda fooled _me_," Harper said testily.

"Sometimes you gotta deal with the devil. Okay? It's already been five days. We're running out of time. If I fail, it really doesn't matter how badly."

Frank eyed him carefully. He seemed to be choosing his words with equal care.

"Mark, listen, we both want this to work. I know it's important, but try to remember, the guy you're trying to save doesn't believe that the ends justify the means."

McCormick looked at him, then shook his head once, abruptly. "I haven't crossed the line yet, Frank."

"Will you even know it when you do?"

Mark hesitated, then sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and said, "I dunno. I think so. The question is, will he? I'm not sure our lines are in the same place."

"Yeah, I suppose you've got a point there." Frank had an almost-smile on his face. "But if it makes you feel any better, I gave him damn-near the same lecture in a room just like this about five years ago."

Then he picked up the case and turned, leaving McCormick with a look of utter astonishment on his face.

00000

For the first hour after Frank's departure, Mark studied the papers and notes from the morning's interrogation. There were almost too many possibilities there. He thought Maybe Farnell was right in his ninety-five percent estimate.

The trick would be to connect the dots in the shortest possible line. Rigere's knowledge of corruption at the Azure was naturally most reliable in the levels nearest to him. Anything much higher than the pit bosses might be mostly hearsay.

And he wanted to see Kathy.

He put the papers down, staring at the phone and wondering where that stray thought had come from. He couldn't call her, and he didn't want to risk going up to her room now. If the whole thing collapsed he wanted no trails of evidence to lead back to her.

He supposed he could go down to the beach, find a pay phone somewhere, call back in to the hotel from there. He ought to find out how Paul was doing, at least.

The unexpected tap on the door made him twitch, startled.

"It's me."

The voice shocked him even more, as though naming really had called. He was on his feet and opening the door a second later, a scowl of disapproval wrestling with a smile of relief. In the end it was a mostly worried look that won out.

He yanked her inside and asked, "What's wrong?" on half a breath.

"Nothing," she frowned. "I mean, nothing new. Are you okay?"

"How many people saw you come down here?"

"It's a hotel, Mark. It's full of people. Lots of people on vacation meet up with other people. It's _okay_. Don't be so nervous." She gave him an impatient look despite seeming more than half-worried herself. "And Paul—"

"He's okay?"

"Yes, better, I think. He didn't wake up till about an hour ago. He wanted me to tell you he's all right." She frowned again, as though she didn't believe that was exactly true, but was willing to convey the message for both parties' sakes. "How did it go this morning?"

"Ah, pretty good, I think. Maybe better than I expected." He led her over to the table where he'd spread out the papers. "Maybe too good.

"The guy in charge over there—the guy at the top—his name is Randolph Zith," Mark said, rubbing his fingers against his temples. "He's the one we have to get to. That's at least five layers up from where we're at now.

"I dunno," he leaned both hands one the edge of the table and stared at it all, "I feel like we're running out of time. This is taking too long."

"Just seems that way," she said reassuringly. She slid into the seat he'd vacated and pulled the list of names over toward herself.

"But I'm hoping to cut through the whole thing by getting at the money directly." He shook his head. "It's gonna be tough, the security—" He glanced up, expecting a look of disapproval, ready to deal with it, on account of he'd decided she had to know the whole truth—why it was so important that she keep a safe distance from him.

She didn't appear to be listening. She was looking down at the list, her lower lip curled gently under her upper teeth. She pushed her non-existent glasses back up on the bridge of her nose. It was so familiar a habit that it made him smile, even in the midst of all of this.

"Anyway," he sighed. "You really ought to—"

"Not five layers," she said abruptly. "And you don't need the actual _money._" She put her finger down on the list, and looked up at him, smiling. "All you need is an accountant."

00000

He watched the evening crew arriving, in ones and twos. Rigere was among them, looking nervously over his shoulder as he headed for the back entrance. Mark hoped he was going to be able to control that while on the job the next couple of days. But he wasn't interested in him anymore, at least not for now.

Not two minutes behind the dealer, McCormick saw the distracted pit boss from the previous night. He slipped into an intercepting course, sidling up to the man and nudging him, just enough to get a sharp look from him.

"Mr. Philippe?" he said it smoothly, without any air of menace. The pit boss pause in midstride and frowned at him, looking as if he was trying to place him. "No," Mark added, "you don't know me. But I know you."

It only took Mark a few minutes, with the man pulled over into a quiet spot off the street, to convince him that he'd been tagged. It was at least half bluff, but backed with enough casually insinuated fact, all gleaned from Rigere.

"On the take," McCormick tsked. "What will Mr. Zith say? At the very least you'll never work in a casino in San Roque again . . . not even pushing a broom. And," he shook his head sadly, "somehow I don't think your boss is the sort of guy who stops at 'the least'.

He had to give the man credit; he didn't break a sweat, even in the tropical evening. But there was a look of concern—anger, too. It was definitely time for the carrot. Mark slipped out another one of the chips. "On the other hand—you could do yourself a favor—Mr. Zith might even end up thanking you for it."

It was so calculatedly bold that the man simply stood in stunned silence. Mark didn't give him a chance to muster any arguments, or even pull together any common sense.

"Look at this list," he pulled a small sheet of paper from his pocket; he'd transferred only four names to it. "You know all these men?"

The pit boss looked down, squinted, then looked up again, nodding nervously.

"All I want you to do is think about them for me, then tell me which one is putting the most in his own pocket."

Philippe began to open his mouth in what might have been protest. McCormick cut him off.

"You don't even have to be right, just as long as you are convincing . . . it's one of them, or you." He smiled. "But you don't want to be late for work," he added smoothly, pressing the chip into the other man's hand. "Might make them suspicious. Especially if they saw you talking to me." Philippe looked down, in apparent sudden realization of how all this would appear to an observer. Then the looked around in nervous haste.

Mark had already taken a step back, out of reach. He supposed the man might toss the chip down and hasten away, but there was something about a thousand dollars, held in the palm of the hand, that could skew a man's thinking—at least for ninety-five percent of the population.

The other man had finally found his voice. "But what—?"

McCormick took another step back and said, "Later. We'll talk. Just go in there and do your job as though nothing is different."

The pit boss started to open his mouth again.

"No," Mark said firmly. "Later." Then he turned his back on the man, not even bothering to see if he was following orders. He knew that in this sort of thing, appearances were everything.

As he was walking back to the hotel, it occurred to him that he might just as well have waited until later to start this phase of the project. He thought maybe his eagerness had something more behind it than the constant nagging worry that the whole thing was taking too damn long, that every minute was essential.

Mark had a brief and grimly humorous vision of the two sides of his conscience, one perched on each shoulder, each complete with his respective badge of office: halo or horns. He was glad he'd gotten the two of them out of town for a few hours. He needed a break.

00000

He awoke to the sound of the phone ringing and realized with sudden shock that it was dark. He scrabbled for the receiver, said hello, and heard Frank's voice.

"Hey." he asked squinting at his watch. Eleven-thirty, which made it obviously P.M., but gave him no handle on what day it was. "Did you get 'em?" he added vaguely, remembering not to say 'guns'.

"Yeah," Harper sounded tired. "Our mutual friend knows a lot of efficient people over in San Rio."

"Good," Mark said, sitting up and running his fingers through his hair. "Efficiency—that's what we're after. You took delivery?"

"Tomorrow morning. First thing. I found us a nice pilot who's willing to give me a ride back."

"You're still in San Rio?" Mark tried not to sound too pleased.

"Yeah, but our mutual friend ought to be back there soon. You didn't think I was going to trust him with any cash, did you?"

"Yeah," Mark said ruefully. "Makes sense."

"How's everything at that end?"

"Progress," McCormick said, terse and weary.

Harper seemed to be considering the meaning and then finally, just asked, "Are you holding up okay?"

Mark frowned at the window, and out into the night. "Frank, I'm fine. I can get up and walk around, go outside if I want. I'm not the one to be worrying about here."

"Maybe not." He heard a sigh from Frank's end of the line. "Okay, tomorrow. Our friend knows when and where."

They said nothing more. Frank probably didn't want details and he certainly wasn't expecting them over the phone. Mark got up; he felt unrested, but too tense to sleep anymore. He showered and dressed. As he was fastening the last button on his shirt, he heard a tap at the door.

He grimaced. He wasn't sure how to make it any clearer to her that this was dangerous, and he has a suspicion that his powers of persuasion were being undermined by a deeper need to see her. He stepped over to the door, the grimace not quite under control, and heard a voice from the other side announce 'room service' as he turned the knob.

He frowned and started to say, "I didn't—" but the man on the other side, burdened with a covered tray and an attitude of bustle, stepped through and said "The table?"

He looked into the hall with just a hint of suspicion, let the waiter in and watched him set the tray down and uncover it. Mark fetched his wallet out, tipped him and saw him back out through the door.

The door closed and latched, he stepped back over to the table. It was only after the food had been uncovered, and the wafting started, that he realized he hadn't eaten since . . . well, he supposed it was all day. He looked down at the plate, tried to figure out the odds of anyone in San Roque besides Kathy—and Hardcastle—knowing he liked his eggs over easy, sausage _and_ bacon, and the hash browns extra crispy.

He shook his head. He hoped she'd at least stepped down to the lobby to phone the order in. He supposed a lot of people didn't get rolling till past eleven in San Roque, and midnight requests for breakfast were not unheard of. He sat down and dug in, surprisingly hungry now that things were starting to move.

00000

The streets of the tourist section of San Roque were never deserted, but at two AM it was easy enough to spot a shadow. Mark slowed up, once he was a block or so from his hotel, and allowed Farnell to catch up.

"Your friend, the lieutenant, doesn't trust me too much."

"He's a good judge of character," Mark replied.

Farnell shrugged. "Probably." And then, "He's bringing the goods himself, in the morning." The older man smiled, looking only mildly curious. "And where are we off to on this fine Caribbean night? You don't look like you're quite ready for an evening in the casino. Been busy while I've been away?"

McCormick nodded to that. He was casually dressed—a jacket and beneath that a polo shirt—but there was a certain emphasis on the darker colors. Farnell's apparel ran to the same shades.

Mark pulled up, in a shadowy spot, and stepped over, off the walkway. He hadn't quite made up his mind if he wanted company or not. No doubt Farnell would be useful; he had his own special air of menace about him, but there were advantages, he'd decided, to working alone.

"You should probably go back to the hotel, get some sleep. I'll need you tomorrow to meet Frank and help him with that end of it."

The other man was studying him, still obviously curious.

"I'm not heading over there to rob the place," Mark finally said, after a moment more of being stared at, speculatively. "You won't be missing out on anything _fun_."

"Well," Farnell rolled his shoulders in a lazy stretch, "I slept on the plane. I'm probably in better shape than you are, from the way you look." His nearly omnipresent hint of a smile was back. "How far _did_ you get this afternoon?"

"Not far enough," Mark admitted. "One more level. A pit boss, John Philippe."

"He wouldn't have been my first choice." Farnell's frown had deepened.

"A change of plans," Mark admitted. "I'm not working toward the security system anymore."

Farnell said nothing. The frown held.

"It was pretty damn ambitious, anyway. You see that, right? Us two against a casino security system."

The older man shook his head and said, "It's a backwater Caribbean casino. If you'd given me two weeks notice and a chance to set things up, I could have cleaned it out myself."

Mark had half turned from him and started walking again. "We don't have two weeks."

"So, now what?"

"You saw that list; you heard was Rigere said, the whole place is rotten. Half the people over there have some sort of scam going."

"Doesn't surprise me."

"The only way that works is if it goes all the way to the top."

Farnell was matching his stride, studying the ground in front of them. He thought that one over briefly and nodded.

"So," Mark said, with more confidence than he felt, "we don't need their money, we just need their books."

"Except," Farnell shook his head, "that's just as dangerous and not even a little bit profitable."

Mark stopped again, abruptly, and turned to face Farnell. "It's how I'm doing it," he said, quiet but firm.

"A little last-minute attack of conscience?" The other man inquired politely.

"Go back to the hotel."

He started walking again without waiting for any more argument. Farnell fell back in alongside him, silent for a moment.

"The hotel's that way," Mark hooked a thumb back past his shoulder. "And I really do need you in decent shape tomorrow."

"You won't need me at all if this guy, Philippe, didn't buy your song and dance this evening. You know you don't really have a lot going for you in the 'scaring the shit out of people' department. I dunno how you ever got Terry Harlow to show up at that cemetery."

It was Mark's turn to shrug. "He just wasn't used to anyone calling him names, besides, I've had my moments." He squinted. They'd rounded the corner. The Azure was in sight.

"Last chance," he said quietly, suddenly glad for the company.

And Farnell stayed with him as he crossed the street.

00000

They didn't have to hang around very long outside the employees' entrance before the pit boss made an appearance. He was alone, and scanned the surroundings carefully before he started out down the street. They gave him a half block before settling in, one on either side. Philippe glanced at Farnell once quickly.

Mark gave the man a light nudge, to refocus him. "You thought it over?"

Philippe grunted and then said, "Another thousand."

Farnell scowled and looked like he was about to say something. Mark silenced him with a look and pulled another chip out of his pocket, flipping it into the air where Philippe caught it in mid spin, then inspected it closely by streetlight.

He pulled the piece of paper out of his pocket and passed it over. One of the names had been circled. "Address is on the back."

"Do you know him?" McCormick asked sharply.

"A little . . . some."

"He married?"

Philippe laughed. It sounded vicious.

"Lives alone?"

"Yeah, I think."

McCormick saw Farnell crowd in a bit and lean toward the man's ear. "If the information's not good, we'll remember where it came from."

Philippe shook his head. "It's good, man. I swear." He shuddered and tried to ease away from Farnell's side.

Mark gave a nod, which might have been interpreted as calling off the dogs. Farnell pulled back just slightly. The pit boss seemed to consider this a dismissal, and he ducked out from between the other two men, turning and heading down the street at a near trot.

McCormick watched him go—quickly off and around the next corner. He turned and cocked his head at Farnell.

"How do you do that?"

"Huh? Oh," the other man thought about it for a moment. "It's just a matter of getting them to believe you're ruthless and'll stop at nothing."

"And how do you do _that_?"

"Well," Farnell frowned, "helps if it's true."

McCormick gave him a long, steady look, then finally shook his head and transferred his gaze to the piece of paper. "Martin Shuwell." He turned the paper over and glanced at the address, then showed it to Farnell.

"Not that far," the older man squinted down. "Want to have a crack at him now?"

"Yeah, but you can head back."

"Hah. Even the accountants at these places aren't Boy Scouts. If this one is stiffing Zith, he's already put his life on the line."

"Then it won't take much to rattle him."

"You won't buy him off for a couple thousand."

Mark though about that for a moment, unconsciously fingering the few chips he had left in his pocket. Morning wasn't that many hours away.

"Okay," he finally muttered. "Come."

00000

Shuwell's frame home had a small enclosed porch, but not all that much else to distinguish it from Rigere's. Mark supposed that the white collar workers at the Azure barely made up in the hourly rate, what they lacked in tips. Still, all this living within his means suggested the man had intelligence.

The lock on the back door was no better than Rigere's, either, and Farnell was through it in under a half-minute. Mark kept his smile of professional approval to himself.

Another bedside interview, this time the victim was small, owl-eyed, and obviously hopelessly myopic. Mark explained the rules of the game in his best approximation of ruthless, and didn't flash any casino chips. Shuwell only held out for a moment before folding his hand.

In compensation, McCormick patted the man's arm before they left, assuring him it would all be fine and that, if anything, his employer would eventually have reason to thank him. Farnell stood aside, looking disapproving, and his glower probably more than offset the reassurance.

They were back outside, with the merest hint of dawn in the east. Farnell muttered something as he closed the door behind them.

"What?" Mark asked quietly, as they turned out onto the sidewalk.

"You can't get this sort of thing done without getting your hands a little dirty," Farnell said, in something approaching a hiss. "Nice doesn't cut it sometimes."

"I dunno," Mark glanced over his shoulder. "His boss throws people to the sharks, and I don't mean that metaphorically. And his boss' boss, back in Jersey, well, he _is_ a shark." McCormick shook his head. "And still all these little fish are nibbling at the profits. They're used to being terrified. They're swimming in terrified all the time. After a while, you just get numb."

He lowered his chin, walking along, hands in his pockets, not looking at the other man, but finally he spoke again. "Sometimes, after you get numb like that, somebody comes along, maybe offers you just a little hope—" he raised his eyes.

There was a definite pink tinge to the eastern sky. "You should grab some breakfast," he said abruptly. "You'll need to head out, meet Frank pretty soon."

"Your driver's picking me up at six," Farnell said, all business, and then, "You can handle this end?"

McCormick nodded. They were down at the beach. The sun was tipping the horizon, setting a stripe of the ocean ablaze. A breeze kicked up, straight in from the water. It smelled like hope.

"Tomorrow," Mark said, and they parted ways.

00000

He dialed the hotel from a payphone outside, requesting her room. She answered on the first ring, sounding as if she'd already been awake.

"How'd it go?" she asked anxiously.

"Fine, exactly as planned. I hope to have what we need in a couple of hours." He thought he could almost hear her exhalation of relief. "And thanks for breakfast."

She laughed, short and light, and then said, "I figured you wouldn't think of it on your own."

"Listen," he said, his tone suddenly more serious, "if I get this stuff—_when_ I get it," he corrected himself, "I'll need to know if it's any good."

"Right, bring it to me."

"No," he replied sharply. The he collected himself and went on, slower, quieter, but very intent. "That's not a good idea. Things may be getting very hot."

"All right, then I'll come and meet you."

"Worse still," he muttered, "No," he said reluctantly, "I guess I'll come there." He wondered how much of him was negotiating one last conjugal visit, and at what risk. "But afterwards, I'd like you to be on a plane."

"I will be," she said calmly. "The same one as you. The one we _all_ go home on."

"Please. If I just knew you were safe—"

"Then you'd take stupid risks. It'd be easier for you. How 'bout for me?"

He thought maybe he hadn't had enough sleep. He was a lawyer; he ought to be able to talk his way out of these things, but no valid argument presented itself and he finally gave up.

"I'll call you when I've got it."

They said their good-byes and he hung up, still holding onto the receiver for a moment. Then he finally made his way back into the building, and up to his room, to try and get a couple hours rest.

00000

The sun was well up, and the beach crowded with tourists, when he strolled back toward the Azure. The meeting spot had been designated by Shuwell, and he was there promptly, standing with the strap of a small duffle casually slung over one shoulder. He spared only one quick sideways glance at McCormick. There might have been a hint of relief there, as if he was glad not to see the more menacing member of the team.

He twitched the strap off his shoulder and let the duffle drop to the bench just behind him. Mark made no move, merely waited for the other man to step away. Though it might just as well have been a personal hand-off, he'd let Shuwell harbor his false sense of security.

But the moment he did walk away, Mark stepped in and took possession. He resisted the urge to check the contents. A list of numbers wouldn't mean anything to him; there was no way for him to be sure they were the real thing or not, and sitting on the beach looking at spread sheets would be unwise. He looked around for a moment himself, trying to decide if there was anyone watching him, and finally concluding it would be impossible to tell.

He slung the strap over his own shoulder, dug his hands into his pockets, and headed back to the hotel.

00000

He rode the elevator to his own floor, exited, then took the stairs up two flights to the sixth floor. He'd already made the call from the same phone he'd used that morning, and the door to Kathy's room opened almost as soon as he'd set his knuckles on it.

He slipped inside, feeling both anxious and foolish. She took the duffle and gave him a quick kiss before carrying it triumphantly to the table. Paul was already sitting in one of the chairs. He smiled a little sheepishly, possibly a first from him, Mark thought.

He decided he wouldn't ask the kid how he was doing. If the answer was 'I'm hearing the voices, and how are you?' there wouldn't be a damn thing he could do about it.

Kathy extracted the hastily-folded length of computer printout. At least it looked like the real deal, to Mark's untrained eye. She tore it in a couple of places for ease of handling, and then passed half over to Paul. Both of them were already equipped with pads and pencils.

Mark sat down on the nearest bed. After a moment of being ignored, he asked, "Is there anything I can do?"

Kathy didn't look up from what she was studying; she merely waved vaguely in the direction of the bed and said, "Take a nap."

He pulled a pillow out from under the coverlet and got himself horizontal. He didn't think he'd actually sleep, but there was something comforting in the softly murmured exclamations, and the steady skritching of the two pencils, and he at least closed his eyes.

00000

He awoke to a moment of confusion and a sense of the passage of time. Kathy and Paul were still at the table, heads together over something. Kathy was talking, but too softly to make out the words, and Paul was nodding to it.

Mark moved, turning to look at the bedside clock. She looked over her shoulder at him and said, "Frank called."

"You should have woken me up."

"Everything's fine. He said it's all in place. He said not to."

He squinted at the clock. "It's after nine?"

"Yes," she said, sounding a little defensive. "Listen, you looked pretty done-in this afternoon, and we just finished up a little while ago."

"Is it good?" he asked, momentarily distracted.

Kathy sat back, smiling. "It's great, better than I'd even hoped. It's like a textbook case; every trick I've ever seen and a couple I hadn't heard off." Paul was grinning, too.

"But it's late. I should have—"

"Everything's in place for tomorrow morning," she said firmly. "And you should stay put tonight. We ordered dinner. I got you a burger, extra pickles, no onion. Is that all right?"

He nodded.

"And I'll need to explain all this to you." She gestured to the papers on the table. "And you'll have to copy some of it down. I don't think you want to take these in."

He nodded again. Nothing was going to happen until morning. He'd already known that. He tried not to think about what that meant at the other end, in Roca Triste.

She was watching him; she seemed to understand what he was thinking.

"You're moving mountains here, Mark. You can only move them so fast; otherwise they'll collapse in on top of you."

He scrubbed his face and finally admitted, "Yeah." And then, almost sounding defeated, "Morning."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 5—January 7th**

Of course he hadn't slept anymore, but Kathy had, after she given him the outline and then went over it with him, line item by line item, every questionable point, all the way from iffy to egregious. He'd taken notes: amounts, dates, enough detail to convince anyone that he was privy to it all.

He was still sitting at the table, studying it, working out his strategy, when he heard her finally stir.

"I'm heading out in a couple of minutes," he said quietly. "You get your stuff together, get Paul. Have some breakfast, check out, and take a cab to this address. He tapped a piece of paper he'd left on the table. "I don't want you here after, um," he looked down at his watch, "ten AM. Okay?"

"Yes." She frowned. "But—"

"Don't worry, it's not the airport. That'd be the first place they'll secure if this doesn't go down right. It's Olivares' house." He fished in his pocket. "He gave me a key." He had it out and laid it on the piece of paper. "Stay there. If I haven't called by," he stopped a moment, giving this some thought, and then, "five o'clock, go to the American Embassy. I wrote that address down, too. Don't tell them the whole story. Just report me and Frank as missing." He paused for a moment and then added, "And don't leave there. Make up any excuse you like, say you were threatened, just don't leave the embassy, no matter what. Okay?"

She'd already gotten up from the bed, still looking unhappy but nodding her reluctant agreement.

He was on his feet, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair. He gathered up his notes and stuffed them into his pocket. She was between him and the door and looked unwilling to let him pass.

"Can't finish if I don't get started," he said, smiling.

"Be careful," she said. It had come out a little sharply, almost as a reproach to his levity.

"I will," he replied apologetically, then kissed her as he passed, already regretfully preoccupied.

00000

As letters of introduction went, it was unique, written on a piece of yellow, legal-pad paper and consisting mainly of the name of a man, a supplier of ashtrays, followed by several numbers. It was designed to be cryptic to anyone but the person to whom it was addressed.

He didn't know how long it had been before it had been passed along to Randolph Zith, but it was only a matter of ten minutes before the secretary in the plush outer office announced he could go in.

It was discreetly luxurious, and Mark knew both the stated and actual prices on several of the decorative items. The man behind the desk, thin-lipped and wearing a very expensive suit, was in a different league from the people he'd leaned on so far. But still, McCormick reassured himself, not an apex predator. _That_ guy was back in New Jersey.

"I'm here to do you a favor," he said with a smile. The scowl on the other man's face suggested that might require some concrete and a deep body of water. Mark didn't give him a chance to voice any regrettable sentiments.

"All I need from you is some minor assistance and, in exchange, I'm offering you a chance to be a key player in the restoration of democracy to San Roque."

The scowl stayed, but there was an element of confusion there as well. Clearly, the man had been thinking in terms of more mercenary demands.

Mark had his notes out. He started reading, paced slow for effect. He hadn't gotten through more than three lines before Zith cut him off with an impatient gesture.

"What the hell do you want from me?"

"Ruiz," Mark said sharply in return. "Here. This morning. You can do that. He's counting on your support for what's happened so far."

Zith said nothing but his eyes had narrowed.

"You're withdrawing that support, that's all. You get him to come here and you keep him. Nothing more. I don't want him killed. When it's all done, you can hand him over to the authorities."

"Whose authorities?" Zith asked suspiciously.

"President Narbona's."

Mark waited for a moment, holding his breath and hoping it wasn't noticeable. There was nothing in Zith's expression to say that he had just suggested an impossibility, in fact, the man seemed to be considering it.

"That's all?" he finally asked, looking doubtful. And finally he added the words McCormick had been dreading, "And what if Narbona's dead?"

_And the guy that just happened to be standing next to him. And all this for nothing._

He drew himself up a little, not showing any of that. He just said, flatly, "Then Vice-President Alvarez."

It remained there for a long moment, balanced on the head of a pin, with Zith staring at him, looking wary.

"'Randolph Zith, savior of San Roque,'" Mark said—the carrot, not the stick.

The other man seemed to be holding it up, studying it from all angles. When he finally set it down again, he'd evidently made up his mind. Mark hung on the decision.

"Can't just hold him," Zith said, "we'd have to get the word out, too. Make sure his supporters knew what was up."

Mark felt the tension flow out of him. Then it was almost immediately replaced by a new set of concerns.

He checked his watch. "Timing. It's everything. How fast can you have Ruiz here?"

Zith smiled slyly. "He was coming for a ten o'clock."

"Perfect." Mark was on his feet.

"What about the records?" the casino boss said sharply.

"I'll have no use for them, except as insurance for continued cooperation between you and the officially constituted government of San Roque."

Zith frowned, looking puzzled.

"Listen," Mark said quietly, "if I wanted cash for them, would I be doing it this way? Come on. Get Narbona back behind his desk, and you can go right on doing what you're doing here. Get greedy and you lose it all. Tell your bosses back in the States that Ruiz was going to undercut them—it's probably true anyway. Just hand him over to the authorities in one piece—one _undamaged_ piece—when this is all over."

Zith's expression had gone to outright confusion, undoubtedly an unaccustomed feeling for him. "So, what's in it for you?"

McCormick was heading for the door. He had absolutely no intention of telling someone like Zith his business, not that he thought he'd understand—none of these people would understand. He just shook his head once and said, "I'm a Boy Scout; I believe in the democratic process."

_And I just broke every rule in the manual to get the troop leader back . . . and I hope to God it's gonna work. _Then he was through the door, giving a quick nod to Zith's secretary and not daring to look back again through the still-open door into the office.

No one hindered him in his passage out of the casino; no one paid him any heed at all. The place was full of tourists, mostly American, determined to have a good time losing their money. He waded through the jangling busyness of it all and out into the brilliant morning light.

He checked his watch, nine-thirty. He took a deep breath and flagged a cab. He didn't want to be late for the revolution.

00000

The cabbie had given him a worried look when he'd named his destination, but a hundred dollars, American, took care of most of that, along with an assurance that he wouldn't have to hang around to give him a ride back. This would be a one-way cab trip, Mark was certain of that, no matter how it turned out.

The twenty-mile journey, on mostly dusty rural roads, gave him plenty of time to think about all the ways it might not come together. Lots of time to dwell on potential negative outcomes. He tried to keep all the worry off his face. He saw the driver casting quick, anxious glances into the rear-view mirror and he didn't want to wind up dumped on the road in the middle of nowhere.

And the first glimpse of the prison still managed to take him by surprise. He wouldn't have been able to describe it beforehand, having entered it in the middle of the night—and left it five days later, temporarily blind, and with no desire in any regard to look back at where he'd come from.

Now it looked strangely quiet in the blazing morning sunlight. The driver stopped a ways off, as though he'd come as far as he was willing and he'd like to be paid. Mark handed over the money and stepped out into the shimmering heat. The cab took off, almost as soon as he'd closed the door, with a cloud of choking dust raised in his haste.

McCormick stepped away hastily, into the clearer air, which wasn't much better. There was a stench about the place, an odor of rot that evoked a deep, visceral recollection that the view had not.

The guards at the gate had taken notice of him; he was the only person in sight on his side of the concertina-wire topped fence. He checked his watch again: ten-twenty. Late enough, he thought and, even if it wasn't, he didn't want to wait any longer. He tilted his ear to the air, back toward the hills behind him, the road leading down from there.

Above the near-at-hand pounding of the surf, he though he heard the distant sounds of the cavalry. He smiled grimly and approached the gate.

00000

It was easier to get into Roca Triste than to get out. The guy on guard seemed more bored than anything else, and a single, unarmed visitor, asking in simple but correct Spanish for an audience with the warden, was probably the bright spot in his otherwise dull morning. McCormick was taken back into the building, and handed over to a clerk.

The request was restated in English, but kept in the most general terms. 'A matter of mutual interest.' A phone call got made. Mark could hear the voice on the other end, in Spanish but too quarrelsome and not authoritative enough to be the warden himself, probably just an underling filling in on a Monday morning. He smiled thinly. He'd hoped for that. But he also hoped it wasn't someone who would balk at making any decision at all, in order not to make a wrong one.

He still had one eye on the clock, but the man on the other end of the line had apparently finally relented. He was sent back toward a door—the frosted half window was lettered with the word 'Commandante' and no name. Mark had a suspicion that his own unorthodox departure from this institution had led to at least one regime change here. He hoped Ruiz hadn't had time to get to this level of the bureaucracy yet.

The man behind the desk looked startled. Mark greeted him in English and was relieved to get the same back. That was a concession in itself, even if the other man didn't recognize it.

He explained it in brief, succinct passages that left no room in-between them for protests of disbelief. He stayed close enough to the desk, and the phone, to prevent any rash action. He remained, himself, not enough of a physical threat to provoke an immediate response.

And through it all he heard the rising sounds of consternation from outside. No gunfire yet, thank God. He really would prefer to keep the counter-coup bloodless, if possible. The man at the warden's desk looked disbelieving.

"Maybe you need to hear it from Ruiz himself?" Mark asked calmly and made a gesture to use the phone, very polite. He was not stopped.

He dialed Zith's office and was put through by the secretary at once, and with some deference. He spoke briefly to the head of the casino and then handed the phone over to the other man. From the sounds of it, Ruiz only got out a few protesting syllables before he was cut off.

"Satisfied?" Mark asked.

The other man stared at the phone, then up at McCormick.

"Come," Mark stood, politely waiting for him, then allowing him to go first, into the waiting room, past the now-standing clerk, and then to the hallway. Guards were scurrying toward the door. They squeezed through the small cluster that had taken cover there, Mark stepping out onto the walkway.

It was an un-uniformed crowd outside the wires, but obviously armed—mostly with AK-47s, from the look of it. They had two Jeeps and a Land Rover, to qualify them at least partly as cavalry. In the forward-most jeep, standing up on the seat, one foot on the dash, with a look of determination, was a man Mark thought he recognized as Alvarez, as much as he could trust the recollection of a brief, nearly-blind meeting five years earlier.

Mark leaned over to the guy alongside him, who was most certainly wishing he wasn't subbing for the warden today, and said, almost gently, "You ought to let them in."

00000

The capitulation was sudden and complete. The guards stood back. They weren't even required to put down their weapons, Alvarez having made the spot decision that they would be subsumed into the new Army of the Republic. This seemed to suit everyone well, and an air of relief and cooperation followed.

Harper stayed behind to manage things and prevent any backsliding. Alvarez seemed as anxious as Mark to get further inside. He and a couple of his troops led the way, inspecting the upper cells quickly and determining that none of the occupants were political prisoners.

Mark felt his heart sink. He'd harbored a sliver of hope that it had gone no further than that, though he'd been mostly certain that someone like Ruiz would not stop at half-measures. The small committee moved deeper into the bowels of the building, down the worn staircase lit by a single bulb, with Alvarez leading. It was almost breathless haste, even without the rising miasma—filth, ancient and more recent.

Alvarez' men had brought flashlights, and didn't seem shocked at their surroundings: the otherwise unlit passageway flanked by heavy, bolted doors of wood, blackened by age. And beyond those . . .

The bolts were thrown, one-by-one—grinding, slow, rusty sounds—and the doors were opened. Alvarez, having taken one of the flashlights, was moving forward.

"Mendoza," one of the other men said, from inside the first doorway to the right,. His voice was almost hushed. "Dead."

"He had a heart condition," Alvarez replied grimly, pushing past, not even stepping into the cell where that discovery had been made.

Mark realized he'd been standing back, almost up against the wall, not joining the rest. He knew he was putting off the inevitable, now that it was finally before him. One of the men cast a quick look over his shoulder from the cell he'd just opened. McCormick couldn't read the man's face, not well enough to know for sure, but it was grim.

He closed the distance between them and pushed the flashlight away. There was enough indirect light for his now dark-adapted eyes, and he knew anything more would be excruciating to the man inside the cell.

Still sitting up—though mostly slumped against the far wall—and moving, one arm coming up slowly to shield his face. Mark was inside, down on his knees, trying to assess the damage.

"It's me,' he said. "Don't try to open your eyes."

Now there was more noise behind him, more people, more lights. No response from Hardcastle yet; Mark wasn't sure if he'd been heard. He knew about this from the other side, and memory undiminished by the passing of five years. The confusion, the sick despair—when they'd first opened the cell to fetch him out he had been convinced they'd come to execute him and, worse yet, he was almost glad of it.

He heard the judge mutter something. Too much noise now, he leaned in closer to hear what was being said and caught a raspy half-whispered, "—and you wanna tell me how the hell you got busted, _too_?"

It had come out sounding exhausted, but blessedly sane and Mark had to stifle a laugh of relief; there was still at least one dead man, lying just across the way in a cell.

"No," he said, "not busted this time, Hardcase. This is a _rescue_, dammit."

The judge tried to blink again, and winced visibly, even in the shadows.

"Eyes closed, remember. Take it slow," Mark said firmly.

There was no helping the light, now. Someone had brought a lantern down, and the shadows were partly dispersed. Mark could see more than the outlines of Hardcastle's face and his appearance frightened him—a grey pallor. He looked over his shoulder and saw Alvarez, with a slightly older man leaning on him, arm across the Vice-President's shoulders. It was obviously Narbona, standing up and shielding his own eyes.

Another man was fussing at the president's left. Narbona waved him off impatiently and sent him into the judge's cell.

"See to our guest," Mark heard him say in Spanish, with more formal dignity that he would have thought possible under the circumstances.

Then water was fetched, and a blanket—nothing fancy, prison issue, McCormick thought. Someone said something about bringing a stretcher and Hardcastle summoned enough strength to get huffy about it.

"There's a flight of steps," Mark cautioned.

"We'll manage," the judge said, a little less rustily after he'd taken another swallow from the bottle Mark was holding for him. "Is everybody else okay?"

McCormick looked back out into the hallway, toward the other cell, now become a crypt with the man's body already draped with another one of the gray blankets.

"One gone." He frowned, trying to remember the name he'd heard a few moments ago. "Mendoza, I think they said."

"Ah . . . " Hardcastle shook his head. Eyes still closed, he reached up and swiped his nose. "The professor . . . just an innocent bystander," he finally added, his voice still barely above a whisper. "Had a lot of background in human rights law. Came over from San Rio . . . the university. We had dinner just . . ." he paused, pulled himself up a little straighter using McCormick's arm and shoulder and finally asked, "What day is it?"

"Monday," Mark answered.

"Which one?"

"The seventh."

The judge frowned. "Not even a week?"

"Long enough. I think you shouldn't be stupid about the stretcher," Mark coaxed, offering the water bottle again, trying to give the man time to think the thing through.

Another long drink, then a breath, and then the judge said, "Nah. I'll be okay."

He started trying to push himself up, not making much progress until Mark gave in and added some upward lift. "Donkey," he said, but so softly he wasn't even sure Hardcastle had heard.

He had, apparently, though the response was an equally quiet _hmph_ and then, "Lucky I am—kept me going." Then he shook his head worriedly. "Still can't see. Hurts."

"Yeah, it'll be a while. I gotcha."

The judge nodded, bowing to experience and leaning hard as they made slow progress toward the stairs.

"Hey," he said, as if to distract himself from the effort, "how'd ya manage the rescue?"

Mark frowned, briefly glad that Hardcastle couldn't see the expression on his face. He'd wanted to stave off that line of questioning for at least a little while longer.

"I had help," he finally said, hoping that would suffice at least for a while.

00000

They made it all the way to the front door where, as Mark had expected, the intense mid-day sunlight forced a temporary halt. Frank showed up, looking relieved. He'd hung onto his AK-47, but had also acquired a list of prison personnel, which he handed over to one of Alvarez' lieutenants.

Hardcastle, hearing his voice, turned his head in that general direction and looked puzzled.

"Frank? You in on this, too?"

Harper had made it over to them. He squeezed the older man's free arm and said, "Yeah, already knew the layout. Mark even let me use my own passport."

Mark cast him a sharp look but the judge seemed to overlook the remark, only saying, "Well, I'm glad McCormick had someone along to keep him out of trouble."

To Frank's credit, he flattened the snort of disbelief into something that might have been mistaken for agreement.

Mark kept them all inside the doorway for a moment, purportedly to advise Narbona's people that the local charges should be upgraded to murder, but mostly to give Hardcastle a chance to catch his breath. Not too much of a chance though, he figured, because right after that the questions would start again.

He cast a nervous look out the front door, and saw Farnell, leaning casually against one of the jeeps, a thin cigar of the local variety clenched between his teeth, and an automatic rifle cradled casually against his hip. He looked rather pleased with himself.

A thank-you note, vaguely worded, later on, McCormick had decided. He wanted no face-to-face encounter right now. He watched the other man tip the ash from the cigar and issue a sketchy salute in their general direction

Frank followed his gaze and seemed to sense the potential for danger, or at least severe aggravation. He patted Hardcastle's shoulder and said, "Olivares has his car round the side, up pretty close. You need a hospital?"

It worked perfectly, more huffing and general protestations, which resulted in Hardcastle very quickly running out of breath entirely and needing support on both sides to get moving again. There were, at least temporarily, no further embarrassing questions about ways and means.

Mark shot the lieutenant a silent look of gratitude and they both hustled the judge toward the car and away from things he was better off not knowing about. Olivares met them there, opening the passenger side doors and looking concerned.

"The airstrip?" he asked. "My cousin, Ernesto, he is with Senora McCormick and the young man. They are well."

Mark cast a quick sideward glance as he felt the judge stiffen up. The man's eyes were now open in apparent surprise and undoubted disapproval. He fervently hoped the car didn't pass too close to where Farnell was standing, on their way out, though he didn't think the judge had much useful vision, yet.

He was right; Hardcastle ducked his head down a moment later, obviously in pain, though it didn't keep him from saying, in terse aggravation, "Kathy, too? And don't tell me . . . Paul?"

"I told you; I had some help," Mark said, with an air of calmly facing the inevitable. "Kathy was just here in an, um, accountancy role."

"And Paul? You didn't need a Geiger counter this time, did you?"

"No, general utility outfielder. He almost made the whole thing turn a profit."

"Hey," Harper turned around slightly and said, "I got a pretty good deal on the guns. Helps to buy in bulk."

Mark appreciated the distraction. He let out a sigh of near-relief as Hardcastle said, "'_Guns_'?" in disbelief.

"Yeah," Harper said philosophically. "I always say, 'the more you have to point, the less likely you are to have to fire any of 'em.'"

"How many were we pointing?" Mark asked casually.

"Fourteen cases, a dozen to the case," Frank shot back quickly. "Seventy-two fifty per gun, the first one-hundred, with a twenty percent discount on every one above that."

Mark did the first part in his head, and then the second, but pulled up short, temporarily, at eighty percent of seventy-two dollars and fifty cents.

Frank turned around a little further and said, "Eleven thousand, one hundred, and ninety-four."

McCormick's whistle was low, but heart-felt.

Frank said, "I gave Alvarez the bill. He said he'll see what he can do about reimbursement."

Hardcastle's eyes were more open now, and slightly more focused. He was drilling McCormick with a look which, though watery, was intense.

"Where'd you get that kind of money?"

Mark smiled primly. "Kathy says a second mortgage is considered a useful financial instrument these days."

Hardcastle had turned his head back straight again, closed his eyes, and shook it again, sharply, just once.

00000

It was a rural landing strip, unpaved but adequately enough maintained for the small cargo plane that was parked at one end. The woman in the khaki jumpsuit sitting in the open side door jumped down as soon as Olivares' car turned into the open field. She appeared neither nervous nor impatient, though, merely concerned.

Mark hopped out as soon as they'd pulled up, and ducked around to open the opposite door and help Hardcastle stand up. The look of relief on Aggie Wainwright's face was unmistakable.

"Milt," she said with a smile, and then turned an offer of necessary support into a friendly hug which Hardcastle put up with, undoubtedly because the alternative was falling on his face.

Mark kept one hand on him and looked over his own shoulder, scanning back the way they'd come for any signs of another car. Harper was at his side now, too, still holding the AK-47 and looking concerned as well.

McCormick looked down at Olivares. "They ought to be here. Should we—?"

The rest didn't get out before they heard the sound of an engine just preceding the appearance of another vehicle where the road emerged from the foliage. This time it was a jeep, driven by a middling-young man who was grinning with a smile that bore a passing resemblance to his cousin's. Kathy was sitting forward in the seat next to him, scanning anxiously, but a moment later she was beaming, too.

There was luggage to be shifted, and Hardcastle to be gotten aboard—with assistance from Frank and Mark—and finally settled into one of the jump seats. It wasn't a particularly comfortable way to travel, but Aggie said, "A tailwind and a light load, I'll have you on the ground in San Rio in forty-five minutes," and he managed a nod.

Then she looked over the rest of her passengers and turned to Mark, puzzled.

"Where's Artie?"

It had fallen, by chance, into a moment when Harper was closing the hatch and Paul was sliding a suitcase into position. Mark shook his head quickly, while sneaking a glance at Hardcastle, who was frowning slightly but seemed preoccupied in thought.

He took Aggie by the arm and pulled her a little further toward the rear of the plane and said quietly, "Not coming." He intercepted her sudden look of concern and quickly added, "He's fine. Just taking a different flight home, that's all."

She made a little 'oh' of understanding, unvoiced, then nodded and said, loud enough to carry, "Let's dog that hatch and get this bird off the ground," as she headed back to the pilot's seat.

Kathy had sat down next to the judge and was leaning toward him a little, talking quietly. Mark grabbed a seat on the floor, alongside Paul and Frank. He felt the engines shudder to life, and the props start to turn. The sound level in the cabin rose. There were no windows, but he knew from the sense of motion that they were gathering speed and then, with a sudden final thunk, the wheels parted from the earth and the vibrations diminished to a steady, low, comforting rumble.

San Roque was below, and soon to be behind them, and his whole flock safe onboard. He let out a sigh of relief. He got a small nudge in the side and turned to see Paul, reaching to pull something out of his pocket—a deck of cards. Despite the slight buffeting motion of the plane, he split it in two and did a passable Faro shuffle. Then he smiled at Mark and Frank.

"Poker?" he asked. It was barely audible above the noise of the plane but had an obvious question mark at the end.

McCormick looked at him in studied disbelief and then at Frank, to whom he said, in a voice intended to carry above the other sounds, "I wouldn't if I were you."


	7. Chapter 7

**Epilogue—January 9th**

Two days in San Rio as guests of Aggie Wainwright—guests who mostly slept and occasionally ate, but were otherwise not much of a party crowd. A phone call had come the first evening, while they were having dinner. Aggie answered it, then retreated to a back room to finish the call.

On her return she said, "News from the front. Things are going well. Ruiz was arrested and, except for that one poor man in the prison, there haven't been any other deaths." No one asked who her source of information was, but she seemed relieved to have gotten the call, and went back to her meal with more of an appetite. Hardcastle, on the other hand, had developed an almost permanently pensive look.

But he'd gotten his strength back. A slight tremor that Mark had noted with alarm back in San Roque was gone after a good night's sleep, and even Aggie couldn't convince him to be checked out by a doctor.

He said, "I'll go see Charlie Friedman when I get back." Which Mark knew was a damn lie, but he was hardly the voice of moral authority at that point, so he kept his mouth shut.

But as kind as Aggie was, they were all eager to get home; especially Paul, who said if he timed this right, he might actually be able to meet the professor at the airport, and never have to explain anything except why the milk in the fridge was outdated.

They caught the early morning flight to Miami, and then, by westward passage, made it to LAX before lunch. The residual of the emergency funds had gone ahead by wire transfer. Paul was seen off in a cab, still having beat Mlotkowski home by one day. Frank went home to Claudia.

And the three of them were finally back at the estate by mid-afternoon. Mark paid the cabbie and grabbed the luggage. Hardcastle made it to the front door, very definitely entirely under his own power. He'd become a little tetchy about offers of assistance, and, in truth, he no longer seemed to need it, though his gait was still slow and a little stiff.

Kathy retreated to the kitchen to call her office and find out just how far behind she'd gotten because of her extended vacation. Hardcastle settled into the chair behind his desk. Mark put the luggage down and wandered in, taking in the ordinariness of it all with a newly appreciative eye—everything, absolutely everything, back in the proper place.

He sat down with a sense of relief, almost lightness, which lasted for all of thirty seconds, before he realized this was the first time he been alone with the judge since that moment he'd first stepped into the man's cell in Roca Triste. And now Hardcastle was giving him a tense, determined, unwavering study.

Mark knew this was the more dangerous kind of silence, the kind that made a person start to answer questions that hadn't even been asked. He forced a smile and vowed to keep his mouth shut no matter what.

Then Hardcastle said, "Are you okay?"

It was a curve ball, absolutely unexpected, and Mark broke his vow with an entirely unpremeditated, "_Huh_?"

"Well," the judge frowned, though there was nothing else in the look except concern, "I dunno, you just seemed a little shook-up. Not yourself. Kinda quiet the last couple of days."

Mark stared back at him with undiluted astonishment.

Hardcastle seemed not to notice that part—though Mark was fairly certain his vision was back to normal—and he continued on, "I just wondered if something was wrong, that's all."

McCormick opened his mouth, remembered his vow, then closed it, kept smiling, and finally said, with a certain amount of rigid cheerfulness, "No, nothing."

"Oh." The frown was still there. "Good," Hardcastle added. And there it stopped, though it didn't sound like he was finished.

Silence again, and Mark continued smiling, though not enough to show that he was gritting his teeth. He was working his way down a list of possible pleasant topics for conversation that wouldn't sound too inane under the present circumstances, when Hardcastle cleared his throat and started up again.

"It's just that I thought you might be upset . . . um, maybe a little angry or something."

This time the 'Huh?' was even more disbelieving.

"I just want you to know, there wasn't a whole lot else I could've done, after I heard Ruiz was sending his guys to the palace. I sure as hell couldn't trust the police, and if I'd gone to the Embassy, well, there wasn't anything _they_ could've done. It was an internal San Roque matter."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Now Hardcastle looked puzzled. He finally said, "My going back to the palace that night, instead of getting on the flight home."

"But you were there for the dinner," Mark said.

Hardcastle looked at him blankly. Then an odd look flashed across his face, as though he'd just realized he'd been confessing to a crime that had, up till then, not been discovered.

"Ah,_ no_." He managed a somewhat crooked smile of his own. "I _had_ been invited," he added quickly, as if that might alter the circumstances somewhat to his favor, but then his shoulders slumped a little. "But I'd turned him down. I kinda wanted to get home," he finished hastily.

"So, what _were_ you doing there?"

Hardcastle's gaze wandered around the room slightly, avoiding eye contact for a moment. Then he finally shrugged and said, "I heard a rumor, from Henrico Olivares. He hears a lot of stuff, you know. He has a friend over in the local police station, near that hotel."

Mark nodded and frowned. He was starting to see the big picture. "And you heard Ruiz was going to stage a coup? So, you figured, what the hell, you'd just mosey on over and help man the barricades?" He heard his voice rising a little in aggravation.

Hardcastle shook his head hastily. "I didn't know it was going to happen that soon. All I was trying to do was warn him. Honest."

McCormick's look of disbelief had slowly solidified into something with more resignation in it. "And here I thought, just this once, that you were an innocent bystander." He sighed. "Not that I'm the least bit surprised to find out I was wrong."

Hardcastle had the decency to look a little rueful, but it didn't hold. It was pretty obvious that if the same circumstances presented themselves again—and Mark sincerely hoped they wouldn't—he'd probably react the same way.

Again the silence, but McCormick had let down his guard, and the next question blindsided him.

"You used Arthur Farnell, huh?"

Marks eyes shot up.

"Well," the judge said with a heavy sigh, "I heard Aggie mention him on the plane, so I asked Frank about it."

'Interrogated' was more like it, Mark thought.

"Yeah," he admitted, trying for a nice, steady, unguilty tone. "I told you I had help."

"But Farnell?" Hardcastle asked, disbelieving.

"_Yeah_," Mark repeated, more defensively. "You know him; he's good at planning, at figuring out the weakness of things. And he was right there, less than an hour away. I needed someone there fast."

He did not spell out the reason why. Hardcastle had gone quiet, looking thoughtful, maybe even a little worried. He finally asked, "How much did you pay him?"

"Nothing."

Hardcastle looked surprised.

"Well, some of his expenses," Mark admitted.

"Then why the hell did he agree to do it?" The judge furrowed his brow; his look of worry deepened. "What the hell did you promise him?"

Mark was briefly astonished at how quickly the questioning had lighted on the very thing he least wanted to talk about. He considered bluffing, but doubted that he could make it hold.

He finally offered a placating shrug and said, "Listen, maybe he _was_ looking for a favor."

"Never," the judge said abruptly. "Not a chance."

"I know," Mark said. "He knows that, too. He's not crazy . . . well, maybe he is."

Hardcastle was still looking at him suspiciously. "What kinda favor?"

Mark scratched his nose and said, very casually, "He thinks maybe someday he'd like to be able to come back here."

"Not a chance, he'd be arrested as soon as he set foot in—"

"Yeah," Mark interrupted. "He knows that, too, but he's got this crazy idea that maybe someday, years from now . . ." He stopped. He shook his head. He had a notion that he'd already said too much and he could almost hear the wheels turning in Hardcastle's head.

"Well," the judge huffed, "_that's_ never gonna happen—"

"Yeah," McCormick let out a breath in relief. "Like I said, crazy."

"—_You'd_ never bend the system like that."

Mark's face froze, mouth half-open, then it slowly closed into an expression that was perhaps a bit tight.

"You have more integrity than that. After all he's done, to let him off the hook."

It might have been that he finally noticed the younger man's rather pointed silence. Hardcastle paused, then suddenly looked worried again. "You didn't promise him or anything like that, not that he could hold you to it, under duress and all—"

"Well," Mark felt his face flush a little; he wasn't sure if it was embarrassment or anger, "not like it's going to matter or anything, but, I mean, if he was old, if he was _really_ old, and . . . well, he just wanted to come home one more time . . ." He wound down, taking in the set of Hardcastle's jaw . "I just think," he started up again, slowly, but with some certainty. "I just think maybe there aren't many people who deserve to die in prison."

There was a long moment of silence this time, and then the judge's very stubborn expression faltered slightly. "It's not like he's been exiled to Devil's Island. It's San Rio, for Pete's sake. _Aggie's_ there," he muttered.

"He did it anyway," Mark said quietly. "He helped me. I didn't make him any promises and he still did it."

"That's because—"

"Because I'm a sucker?" Mark asked wearily. "Well, then good thing there's absolutely no chance I'll ever be in the position to do him a favor, huh?"

"Is that what you think, kiddo?"

"I'm an ex-con—"

"Rehabilitated, pardoned. You graduated at the top of your class and you're turning into a pretty fine lawyer. Why not?"

"Because I don't want to be."

Hardcastle sat back in his chair, giving him a long look. "Well," he finally said, "not yet. Of course not. But in ten, fifteen years."

"_Never_."

The startlement on Hardcastle's face was almost painful. Mark thought for a moment that he really ought to have just kept that opinion to himself. He just hadn't had time to work it all through; the idea had come up so suddenly.

_No it didn't. Farnell said the same thing a week ago._

He had, and the idea of sitting at the bench—sitting in _judgment_, being responsible for the fates of others—had sent the same cold shudders down his spine then as now.

"I don't think so," he said, quiet again, and with an absolutely false tone of considered, calm, rational decision-making. "I'd be letting doddering old criminals go free to walk the streets."

"All right," Hardcastle said. He shook his head once but didn't look like he was throwing in the towel. "There's room for differences of opinion, even on the bench. And I'm not saying you _have_ to do it, just that you might consider it . . . someday. You should think about it."

"Okay," Mark said, working his way back to a cautious smile. "I'll think, and you won't nag. A deal?"

"'Nag'? I don't _nag_."

"Hah."


End file.
